


Sonnet

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_Angel)



Series: sonnetverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blow Jobs, Canon Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jim being a creepy fucker, John is a Saint, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Torture, Romance, Schoolboy AU, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Slow Build, Teenlock, There will be lots of porn, because I aim to please, casefic, mycroft is a very good brother, non graphic description to torture, sort of, threatened rape/non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 144,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_Angel/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had spent a very long time feeling very, very lonely.</p><p>He had never realised this, of course. Until John Watson came along into his life, and Sherlock realised there had been an empty space there that John had filled up perfectly.</p><p>(Moving some stuff over from ff.net.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You guys might have come across this fic on ff.net, in which case, feel free to go back and read something else XD But if you haven't, enjoy! I'm moving this fic over from ff so my readers over here can read it too. There will probably be a plethora of typos, which, you are free to bring to my notice. God forbid, if there's another 'shit' instead of 'shirt', PLEASE.TELL.ME. Anyway, I'll probably have all the chapters here within a few days. So, happy reading! And, as ever, comments are appreciated.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was not fond of school. Sherlock  _detested_ school. Mostly because it was dull. Sherlock found everything extremely dull. And boring. Life in general was boring, and Sherlock spent the majority of it moping about the unfairness of it all. What the  _point_ of being a genius when the world stubbornly refused to challenge you?

Which was why he was extremely annoyed when somebody began to knock very loudly on his door. Sherlock deduced this was his housekeeper. It wasn't much of a deduction. He moved only enough to throw his pillow at the door and complain, "I don't  _want_ to go to school! Go away!" Then he flopped back on the bed, and covered his face with a pillow to spare his eardrums the shock of her shrieks.

But she made it very difficult to get up, and when the butler joined in, it became very difficult indeed. So finally he had to wake up. Mycroft, evidently, did not care for this early morning drama, or he had expected Sherlock to wake up anyway. In any case, all he had done was place two slices of toast on the plate when Sherlock came downstairs to the breakfast table dressed in his uniform.

"Good morning," Mycroft said, not looking up from his newspaper.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, trying to sound very superior.

"Eat your toast," Mycroft replied very smoothly.

"I hate you," Sherlock muttered.

"I'm aware. Eat your toast."

"You're positively  _hateful_."

"Sit down and eat your toast or I'll close the library down."

"If you do that I shall run away," He sat down anyway. Mycroft did not make idle threats. That was one of the things that made him so distasteful. The other things were mainly just the fact that he existed. "And you'll never find me. And when you find me I'll run away again. I'll keep on running away until you grow tired of it and give up." He munched on some toast. It tasted awful.

"I seem to have forgotten that my brother was five years old," Mycroft murmured. "Where on  _earth_  did I get the preposterous idea that he was sixteen?"

"All your ideas are preposterous.  _You're_ preposterous." Sherlock pushed his plate away.

"You haven't finished your breakfast."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why do you  _insist_ on being so tiresome?" he demanded. "First you send me to school-"

"You  _have_ to go to school, Sherlock. I couldn't possibly stand having you here the whole day."

" _You're_ not even here the whole day. Your statement makes absolutely no sense. It's because you're lying. If you lied in court you'd have to go to jail."

"I assure you I will not have to go to court any time soon," Mycroft replied smoothly, folding his newspaper and looking up at him. This irritated Sherlock a great deal. "Mother and Father will be home soon. I assume you'd like to leave before they're home?"

Mycroft insisted on dropping him off. Sherlock protested vehemently and left before he could say another word. One of Sherlock's greatest pleasures in life was antagonizing his brother. This provided, at least, slight entertainment in his otherwise dull life. He was going to be alarmingly early for school, but Mycroft was being his usual annoying self and if Sherlock stayed even a second more in his presence he might throw something at him.

He had to go by public transport, of course, and this was detestable. But the comic expression on Mycroft's face whenever he was unable to have his way was worth it. The utter dullness of humanity, of course, could not be ignored. Sherlock tried to amuse himself for a while by making deductions, but even this was boring. Everyone was an open book. The person in front of him was knee deep in debt, was having an affair, was going to be fired soon from his job...the girl beside him was a baby sitter and was a pathological thief, the boy on the other side of the bus had a smoking habit, fancied the girl in front of him, and was wearing someone else's shoes. It got boring after a while, and so he was relieved when he came to school.

Almost.

Sherlock did not have friends. He did not have the time for friends, nor was he inclined towards making an effort to cultivate relations with another human being. Friendship meant treating your friend like an equal, but everyone was an idiot and as Mycroft constantly told him, they were living in a world of goldfish. Besides, no one was interesting enough. His family, well, that was by birth. He had never asked for Mycroft, Mycroft just  _was_.

He walked across the well kept field towards the main building. There were a few students milling about on the expansive grounds, but not many. Anderson and his annoying girlfriend were probably not here yet, which was honestly a relief. Since, if they were, they would probably greet him with their usual display of bullying. Sherlock found this very tedious. Anderson was too much of a coward to actually pick a fight with him, so instead, he used his limited vocabulary to verbally abuse Sherlock. It was physically painful listening to him try to bully Sherlock. He might have even welcomed a fight; it would have provided some relief to the insanity inside his head. But this?  _Dull_.

Sherlock kept his head as low as he could, trying not to attract any attention. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to  _interact_ with him. He detested people on principle, so he avoided them to the best of his ability. Most people avoided him as well, but there were always those exceptions that refused to take his misanthropy at face value.

Sherlock checked his watch. Class wouldn't start for a while. What his first class was, he had no idea. That kind of information fell into the category of 'unwanted' 'useless' and 'unnecessary' and had been deleted by his brain a very long time ago. Basically, he wasn't going to attend it. Maybe if he missed enough classes they would expel him. He had been expelled before. He knew how to do it. Some might even call him an expert. Sure, his parents would pay a huge sum of money to prevent this, and that might work. But that didn't mean he would stop trying. His parents might eventually give up and he might mercifully, finally- be left to his own devices.

"Er- excuse me, mate? You know where 11B is?"

Sherlock was very rudely snapped out of his thoughts by this voice. He turned out quickly to take him in. Quite a bit shorter than Sherlock, but that wasn't surprising; Sherlock was tall for his age. A mop of dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, athletic, dressed in a new uniform. Conventionally attractive, he mused. He had taken the train that morning, evidently. He had a younger sister, too. Judging from the folds in his shirt-

"Eh. Mate. D'you think you could help me, maybe?"

Sherlock squinted at him. No one had called him 'mate' before. This boy had surprised him. No one ever surprised him. His voice was peppy, upbeat, it might even be termed as 'friendly'. He seemed exactly the kind of person Sherlock should stay as far from as possible.

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there."

* * *

John had never seen anyone like this boy before. He looked like he had stepped out from the pages of a Shakespearean tragedy- with his high cheekbones, piercing grey blue eyes, and the pale, ghostly tint of his skin, and that shaggy head of thick curls the colour of dark chocolate. That bored, mopey expression on his face seemed to exaggerate his sharp, regal features. He was tall, thin; John could almost imagine him in breeches and doublet, maybe a riding crop by his side, but instead he was dressed in his hopelessly prosaic school uniform.

He walked quickly and surely, and John had quite a time keeping up with his pace.

"So, what's your name? I'm John, John Watson."

The boy stopped suddenly, right in the middle of that deserted corridor. The expression on his face was unreadable. He stared at John for quite a few seconds, his pale, multi coloured eyes unfathomable.

"What?" he asked.

John wasn't very sure why this simple question was so shocking, but he decided to ask him again. You never knew with these posh schools.

"Your name? You're escorting me to my classroom like a little girl, so I might as well get to know you." He grinned, hoping a bit of humour would put him at ease.

The boy looked as confused as ever. Then he cleared his throat, his adam's apple bobbing as he did so.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, saying his name with something akin to a flourish, in that deep baritone of his.

Yep, he definitely should have existed a couple of centuries ago, with a posh old name like that. Who names their kid  _Sherlock_?

"Brilliant. Nice to meet you, Sherlock," John smiled at him, putting out his hand for a friendly handshake.

Sherlock stared at him like he was some sort of exotic plant, or a specimen under a microscope- his lips slightly parted and his eyes fixed on John's outstretched hand.

Oh-kay. This bloke was weird. John pulled his hand back and shoved it into his pocket. "Well," he said loudly. "Classroom this way, then?"

Sherlock looked a bit surprised, as his eyes suddenly darted up to John's face, as if he hadn't expected him to speak at all. Then he cleared his throat again.

"Oh, yeah. Yeah. Right this way." He resumed walking.

He stopped in front of the door to an empty classroom. John knew he was early, so he wasn't surprised that no one was there yet.

"This is it," he waved a long fingered hand at the classroom. John stared longer than necessary at those fingers.

"Well, thanks, mate," he said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. Sherlock stiffened immediately under his touch, but John decided not to dwell on that. This bloke clearly did not like him. Wow. The first day of school was going brilliant for him, wasn't it?

He sat down as Sherlock stalked away. John tried not to feel bad about his aversion. He was probably one of those popular ones. Looked it too, with his subtle elegance and his obvious distaste for John.

Someone suddenly cleared his throat. John whipped his head to the door, from where the sound had come. Sherlock's head poked out from the frame. As soon as John's eyes met him, Sherlock stepped in, standing ramrod straight, and said very clearly, like he had practised a couple of times: "It was nice to meet you too."

John stared at him. "What?"

Sherlock frowned at him, obviously not pleased with the fact that John was acting like such an idiot. "You said 'nice to meet you Sherlock.' So, I'm saying, 'nice to meet you, John.'"

John stared uncomprehendingly at him. "But I said that ages ago," he finally spluttered.

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock said slowly, rolling his eyes. "And I'm saying it ages after. What difference does it make?"

John opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying, "No, I guess it doesn't." Not particularly because he believed it, just that he didn't know what else to say.

"Alright, then," Sherlock said, and turned to leave.

"Hey, wait," John called after him. He turned around.

"You could, ah- sit here. Get to know each other, maybe?" John could have punched himself. Who said things like that?

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "I already know a few things about you."

"What? What do you know?"

Sherlock walked closer to John, with a certain air of superiority, like he was about to do something that he knew he did brilliantly and he was aware of the effect it had on others.

"I know you came here by train. I know you have a younger sister who you dropped off at school before coming, I know you're a very good student, and this is the first time you've been to a private school, especially one as posh as this. I know that you have a dog, a small one- maybe a bulldog? Oh, and I'm pretty sure you played football this morning."

John stared at him. Then he laughed. "How on  _earth_ would you know that? Alright, mate, tell me who told you."

Sherlock looked severely affronted. "Nobody  _told_ me. I simply observed." He jutted his chin out superiorly.

"Alright. How did you  _observe_ then?" John sat back against his chair and looked up at him expectantly, letting the challenge lie there.

"Fairly simple, if you think about it. You were panting when I first saw you, and you're the athletic type; one look at you and that's clear enough. It's not much of a walk from the gate to the building, so I doubt that would tire you. The bottom of your trousers has a bit of mud; if you look at the colour carefully you'd know you're not from around here, since you don't find that kind here. You were panting, so you had evidently walked a bit, presumably from the station. How can I be so sure? The ticket holes still sticking to your trousers. Sister? There are two, not one. Could be your friend, but why wasn't he with you when he walked in? May have been younger than you, so maybe a different form? Not at all. Why would you ask two people for directions? Furthermore, there's a primary school five minutes from here which is evidently where you dropped her. Why couldn't it have been a brother? Then you would have brought him here, wouldn't you? And only the eleventh and twelfth form are co-educational here. You don't come from a family of a lot of means, clearly- your uniform is new, but your shoes are old- obviously hand-me-downs. If you were as rich as the other children here, you could afford new shoes. So you've been admitted here on merit, since the other alternative is money, and therefore, you're a good student. How do I know it's your first time? The fact that you're so early. If you're used to it, then you'd be as annoying as the others and come as late as possible. But you've taken the first train here, so I can tell you're excited. There are hairs on your trousers- you've got a dog, but they're below your knee so obviously a small dog. Oh, and as for football, you're wearing cleats." He took a deep breath. "Am I wrong?"

John's mouth was open. He quickly snapped it shut. "No. Mate, that was  _brilliant_."

Sherlock shrugged, making a dismissive noise. "Most would call me a piss off."

John laughed, and to his surprise, even Sherlock cracked a smile. Not a smirk, not a sneer; a genuine smile. A small one, but a smile nevertheless. Before he could say something, the bell rung, and there was the sound of shuffling feet. People would be coming to class now.

"Well, come in. Aren't you going to attend class?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scowled, and left as dramatically as he had come.

John's first class was English. When Mr. Eccleston, his class teacher, read out the attendance sheet, he didn't even flinch when the students said Sherlock wasn't there. So he was one of  _those_ types, was he? The kind who thought they were too cool for classes? John chuckled to himself.

The students were friendly enough, and an especially pretty girl named Sarah sat next to him and offered him her notes.

After class was over, John turned around and asked his new friends about Sherlock. They stared at him. Sarah started giggling. They all laughed maliciously.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Sarah repeated. "The bloke with the cheekbones?"

That seemed like an accurate description of Sherlock, John thought. He nodded. "I guess so. Yeah."

"Well, then. Stay away from that one, then, mate," Edmund warned him.

John frowned at him. "What is that supposed to mean?" He didn't mean for it to come out so cutting.

"Oh come on. You've met him, haven't you? He seemed perfectly normal to you?" Edmund raised his eyebrows.

"Well...no," John said slowly, but he didn't see why it was so much of a big deal. Sure, Sherlock seemed a little different. Why was that so important, anyway? He didn't like these guys very much, after all. (Except Sarah. She was very pretty) He shrugged. "But he seemed nice to me."

Sarah giggled again. Okay, maybe not. "Are you sure we're talking about the same bloke? I don't know who you met, John, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't do  _nice_."

Before John could reply, someone moved quickly past him. His friends saw who it was, and exchanged knowing smirks. John turned around.  _Sherlock_.

He went right to the back of the classroom, sat down on a desk, perfectly straight, with his fingers against his lips, as if in prayer, staring transfixed at the blackboard like it as the only interesting thing in the room. He didn't give away any signs of having heard what Sarah had said, but John was fairly sure he had. No one was surprised to see him.

"It's Chemistry," Edmund explained. "He always turns up for Chemistry, that psycho."

John didn't want to listen to them anymore. He grabbed his bag, and walked right up to Sherlock's desk, and sat down in the immediate desk next to him. Sherlock gave no sign of noticing him, his eyes still fixed in front.

When John finally settled, he moved his hands away from his chin and said, "I hope you haven't come here to apologise or anything as tedious as that."

John chuckled. "No, mate. It's just that everyone in this classroom seems like an idiot."

Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. "Something I agree with, John."

John grinned at him. "So indirectly you're saying that I'm an idiot too."

Sherlock stilled momentarily. Then he spoke like he had never suffered a moment's hesitation. "I'm still making up my mind about you."

"Haven't you  _observed_ enough to know, by now?"

Sherlock looked at him. "You're making jokes."

"Yes."

"You're trying to be  _funny_."

"Uh. Yes?"

"You're not making fun  _of_ me."

"No," John said quickly. "Of course not."

"I've decided that you are not an idiot, John Watson."

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

John had thought that it would be nice to sit next to a friend during his first day of school. The friends he had made at first turned out to be insensitive berks, and Sherlock Holmes was far too interesting to ignore.

What he hadn't expected was he would have to sit next to an empty chair for the rest of the class because Sherlock would be thrown out five minutes into class.

John told himself that he probably hadn't  _meant_ to sound so obnoxious, but the look of arrogant superiority on his face clearly told him that he had. John couldn't even remember what the teacher had said, but Sherlock had unceremoniously corrected him, called him an 'idiot' and demanded to know how he had become a teacher in the first place.

John also had a feeling that this was a regular occurrence because all the teacher had said was, "Mr. Holmes, if you find my class so tiresome, do us all a favor and step out."

"I'd be  _delighted,_ " Sherlock had drawled, and with a particular look of disgust that would only look good on his face, he had walked out.

Sarah had turned to him with a look that clearly said,  _Didn't I tell you, John? Didn't I_ tell  _you he was a psycho?_

But John didn't care.

After class was over, he checked his schedule and was glad to find he had a free period. Brilliant. He'd go look for Sherlock. John wasn't entirely sure  _why_ he was doing this, but there was something strangely endearing in having a boy who thought everyone was an idiot tell him that he, in fact, was not. But how did his opinion matter? John was aware he wasn't an idiot. And secondly, all the signs seemed to scream  _Stay away from this psycho!_ But John didn't think he was a psycho. John thought he was different, and different wasn't always bad.

* * *

John Watson was a conundrum. And of course, common sense would dictate that Sherlock keep his distance from anything that resembled a paradox. Paradoxes were silly, and they were for the self-proclaimed village idiot, he mused; and certainly not worth his time. But then, he had known John Watson for all of ten minutes and he had already proven himself to be an exception. Sherlock found exceptions tedious; they were unsightly blots on the fluidity of a proven concept, and made matters much worse. But (ugh, Sherlock groaned inwardly. John Watson was full of 'buts') this boy hadn't made anything worse. Yet.

Sherlock had found a ring buried deep in the dirt, and was examining it closely, trying to deduce something about it's previous owner. It was hardly challenging, but Sherlock's mind was stagnating into the pile of goo it became whenever he was faced with those tiresome lessons, and he needed something to get those wheels running again. It would have been preferable to plop it under the microscope back at home, (he considered simply pocketing it and going to his lab right then and there)

He was in the middle of deciding the owner's probable age when he heard the crunching of leaves under someone's foot.

Sherlock turned around to find John Watson frowning at him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, sounding brusque and rude. He regretted the tone of his voice, but it wasn't if John would actually be hurt by it. People were only hurt by people they liked, and it was a stretch of the imagination that John had  _anything_ bordering on liking for Sherlock.  _Sentiment_ , Sherlock thought distastefully.

John raised a blond eyebrow at him. "I came looking for you, actually," he explained, walking up to him. Sherlock noticed how his hair was a bit more dishevelled than it was since the morning, and his left collar was slightly turned up at the edges. He had been looking for him for a while, then.

"Looking for me?" Sherlock echoed incredulously. " _Why_?"

John's lips quirked up in a smile. "You're forgetting you said 'nice to meet you, John,' to me. You haven't met me at all." He sat down beside him. Usually Sherlock detested when people invaded his personal space, but he found that he was not finding this position as unpleasant as he might have.

"What are  _you_ doing?" John asked, curiously eyeing the ring in Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock weighed the question in his head. His mind zoomed into overdrive, where he imagined what would be the probable result of telling this fairly normal boy that he was crouching in an obscure corner of the grounds, deducing a ring he had found half-buried in the dirt as an alternative to getting high.

" _What the fuck?" John would exclaim._ (Sherlock felt fairly certain that John was the kind of boy who swore openly. Or at least, the situation would prompt him too. Most situations with Sherlock caused people to swear)  _"Mate, you're a freak."_ Then he would give him a look of disgust and walk away, and the last thing Sherlock would remember would be the sound of the leaves crunching underfoot as John Watson ran away from him.

But, as he had told himself before, John didn't like him, and at the most, probably found him vaguely interesting, so what did he have to lose? However, there was that time in the morning when he had called him 'brilliant'. Did people usually-

"Sherlock? Hello? Anybody in there?"

Sherlock rapidly blinked a couple of times and realised John was waving a hand in front of his face.  _Idiot_ , he chastised himself. Now there was an even smaller chance of John liking him.

"I found this ring in the dirt," Sherlock told him, holding it up to eye level for him to see. "And I can tell that this ring is fairly new, it belongs to a woman, and it was thrown away because of an unhappy love affair. I was bored. Life generally bores me, so I came here. I come here quite often, you know-"

"How the  _hell_ did you find all that out from one ring?" John's blue eyes were widened in shock. Nice colour, those eyes- dark blue, kind of like sapphires-

Sherlock cleared his throat, banishing those thoughts immediately.  _What in the world was wrong with him? Was he actually thinking about the colour of John Watson's eyes?_

"Well, the fact that this ring is pretty new you can see from it's sheen. It hasn't been buried very long, since it wasn't buried too deep and the metal is still strong. You see all these scratches along the rim- she probably keeps it with a whole assortment of other things which doesn't exactly point to someone who cares a great deal for her marriage. Then you see the difference between the outside of the ring, and the inside- it's been removed regularly because it's cleaner on the inside than the outside. It hasn't been removed to clean, obviously- so why would anyone attempt to remove the proof of a marriage? Affair. Young woman- clearly- look at the design of the ring. It can't be an old woman because a. It's unlikely she would be having an affair, and b. Even if she was, she wouldn't come all the way here to throw it away. Older women are more likely to keep it locked up somewhere. And it wouldn't be that scratched, because it's unlikely she would indulge in a great deal of activity. Unhappy, because why else would the need to throw it away arise in the first place?"

John gulped. "How can you tell it's a woman? Maybe a bloke fancies that sort of a thing."

Sherlock shrugged. "Balance of probability."

John shook his head in amazement. Well, at least Sherlock assumed it was amazement. Any other emotion (like shock at his absurdity, for instance) would be incredibly embarrassing, and Sherlock might have to bury  _himself_ in the dirt.

"Mate, you're brilliant." He took the ring from Sherlock and stared at it. "All that from a ring!"

Sherlock felt a funny sensation in his stomach. No one had ever praised him for his deduction before. To hear someone say something  _nice_ about the one talent he had (playing the violin didn't count, that was far too mundane) made him feel...different.

"Well, the fact that it's been buried hides a lot as well, it's fairly simple to deduce the rest-"

"Oh shut up," John muttered, "You don't have to be all modest around me. You're not the modest sort, I can tell. And that's fine. When you've got a brain like that, well. Why should you be?" He grinned.

There it was, that funny feeling. John was right, he  _wasn't_ modest. So why should he try to show John that he was? Pretence was stupid. There was no point trying to be something he wasn't around John, he could pick it up. John wasn't an idiot. Well, he probably  _was_ , but not so much as the rest. And that made all the difference, Sherlock supposed. And what was more, John had told him that it was  _alright_. To not be modest. That was another first. This was a morning of firsts, Sherlock thought- and all of them brought about by this blonde haired, blue eyed, not-an-idiot boy sitting beside him.

* * *

John was being an idiot.

What must Sherlock think of him? He sounded like a gushing teenager when he praised him. Sherlock must be used to that sort of thing, right? But even as he said it, he realised that didn't exactly ring true. The hesitant look in his grey-blue eyes when he spoke, the slightest blush that graced his skin when John said those things- Sherlock probably had never been spoken to in this way before.

"I suppose," he said slowly, in that rumbling baritone. Even that voice seemed to match him- deep, rich, exactly what a prince from a medieval ballad would sound like. "But I regret to inform you, John, most people don't find me as brilliant as you do." He said it simply, like it was of no real consequence, but to John, the words were a punch in the gut. Surely,  _surely_  someone had told Sherlock how talented he was? He absent mindedly fingered the rim of his shirt cuff. John couldn't help but notice the faint marks on his pale skin; innumerable scars and tiny puncture holes...a dark thought crept up inside him, but he banished it as soon as he came. Even if that was the case, it was too soon to confront him about. He might get offended and walk away, and John would never speak to this brilliant boy again.

"Well, maybe it's because of your penchant for showing off," John laughed.

"I  _am_ a show off," Sherlock replied doggedly. "That's what we do. And besides, didn't you say that with a mind like mine, I didn't have to be modest?" Then he pouted spectacularly with that bow-shaped mouth of his, and John could have laughed at how ridiculous he looked. Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly  _not_ in the habit of pouting; that much was clear.

"Oh, so you  _have_ been listening to me, then?" he grinned. "Alright, mate; but maybe you should show off in front of me, since I'm not likely to bite your head off about it."

Sherlock looked surprised; his pale eyes wide. "You're not?"

"'Course not. Haven't I already told you that I think you're brilliant?"

He nervously fiddled with his maroon tie. "You do?"

John rolled his eyes. "That's quite enough. Are you fishing for compliments, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, I don't get many, so, I thought I might as well get some from you, since they're probably the only ones I'm likely to get." There he went again; dropping things like that on him like they were commonplace, and ordinary; but John couldn't help but wonder about all the emotion laced in those words; even though Sherlock's pale face remained inexpressive, the only colour the grey-blue in his eyes and his dark chocolate curls. How could someone gifted with such a mind be so riddled in self-doubt? Sure, the bloke pretended to be an arrogant, obnoxious arsehole; and it some ways he definitely was. But John suspected that beneath all that bravado, he didn't know what to make of himself.

"Then yes, of course. You're brilliant. You make these- what do you call them- assumptions?"

"Deductions," Sherlock corrected, with a dramatic roll of his eyes.  _This_ , John was sure, was something he did very often. "They're only assumption if you're  _assuming_ , John. But I'm fairly confident that they're facts."

" _Deductions_ ," John muttered. "You do realise I'm complimenting you?" Sherlock gave him another one his almost-smiles, the one that transformed the cold reason on his face to something human and warm. "So, as I was saying- you make them in the blink of an eye, and it's really something. But what I don't get is, you're so smart- you could easily be top of the class. And yet here you are, hiding in the woods and refusing to attend classes."

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Lessons are the bane of my existence, John. What's the  _point_ of knowing the things they teach you? My mind would probably delete them within a second. How does it matter to me if-"

"Wait, hold up." John held up a finger. " _Delete_? How the hell do you  _delete_ something from your mind?"

Sherlock looked at him with the expression John knew was his usual one, within hardly an hour of knowing him; the  _my god you're such an idiot why am I even wasting my time with you_  look.

"Ordinary people fill their minds with all kinds of rubbish. Your mind is like an attic, John- and a fool fills it with every lumber he comes across. Which is why the information which may be useful to him get crowded out, or is mixed up with the idiocy  _he_ considers important. Your mind isn't elastic, you know. It is of the highest importance, then, John-  _not_ to have the useless things elbow out the important ones." He said it in that vaguely bored tone of his- and John might have found it annoying if it belonged to anyone else. But on Sherlock, well. On Sherlock it seemed right at home, and imagining him using a friendly, upbeat voice was almost laughable.

"And you think lessons are useless, do you?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied simply. "What the deuce is to me? What do I care who the president is, or when the war was fought, or that the sun goes around the earth-"

"The earth goes around the  _sun_ ," John corrected, staring at him.

"So it does," Sherlock said impatiently. "What on earth will I do knowing that? If we went around the moon, or round and round the garden like a bloody teddy bear- what difference would it make to me? The only thing that matters is the work; and without it my brain rots." He finished with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest and looking at John, a challenge in those eyes of his.

John gaped at him. "But that's primary school stuff!" he spluttered. " _How_ can you not know that?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Are you not listening to me?" he demanded. "I  _told_ you. Even if I did know, I've probably deleted it."

Then John started laughing. He couldn't help it. He couldn't believe how perfectly absurd Sherlock was; and how strangely endearing he was finding it. This boy was  _ridiculous_.

"What? What is it?" he demanded, looking at him with a strange look of fear. John stopped laughing immediately; well at least he  _tried_. Tiny spurts of mirth still burst from his lips.

"Nothing, nothing," he reassured him, wiping away a tear. "God damn it, Sherlock Holmes, you're ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" Sherlock repeated, gaping at him comically, bow-shaped lips wide in shock. "You think I'm  _ridiculous_? And just a moment ago you said I was brilliant."

"Oh, you're brilliant, you are. And that's one of the things that make you so ridiculous. I can't  _believe_ you don't know the earth goes around the sun."

Sherlock huffed. "Are we really going to talk about that again? I thought we had exhausted this topic."

"Exhausted it?" John laughed. "Mate, I've just found the gold mine for teasing you. You wait- I'm going to make a list of all the stuff you have no clue about and remind you of it every minute."

Sherlock threw him another dramatic eye roll. "How perfectly tedious," he muttered. "I'm going to start calling you an idiot again."

"Call me what you want, Sherlock. Doesn't mean I'll stop."

"Whatever," he replied, flopping back against the grass. The word sounded strangely juvenile on his lips; like it was odd hearing him say anything informal.

That was when the bell rang, and John heard the faint ring in the distance. He looked at Sherlock, his slender body stretched on the grass, hands thrown out on either side, slim fingers curled up, his shaggy hair messy.

"You're not going to come for the next class, are you?"

"Absolutely not. I am currently of the opinion that you're not an idiot, John. Do try to keep that image."

John smiled. "So what are you going to do until then? Hang out with some other friend?"

"I don't have friends."

John stared at him. Jesus, he needed to stop  _saying_ thing like that. He might end up hugging him or something. But he couldn't possibly be serious. No friends? At all? How on earth was that even possible? Then flashes of the day past before his eyes; that boy at the steps with the frizzy haired girl; Sarah and Edmund with their malicious laughter; and last of all Sherlock himself with his firm belief that nobody liked him. Of course. They probably thought he was some sort of freak; and his brilliance was the result of a defect in his brain, or some such rubbish as that. Of  _course_ no one had befriended him, and that made John incredibly angry. How could no one have noticed what a...what a... _genius_ he was? That was probably  _why_ Sherlock was so rude and snarky; he hadn't had an opportunity to be nice to anyone. John refused to entertain the possibility that Sherlock was at fault here, and even though that seemed like a biased thought (and John prided himself on being fair) he couldn't help it.

"I'm your friend, aren't I?" he suddenly said.

Sherlock whipped his head around to look at him, and it seemed like an eternity; as those grey blue orbs searched his face, the expression in them inscrutable.

Then he turned away. "You should get to class."

John wanted to say something. John wanted to shout at him for being such an idiot, but then, there was always the possibility that this boy didn't like him, wasn't there? Everyone couldn't like him.

So he left.

* * *

Sherlock watched him go, his mind a whirlpool of thoughts, a thousand different deductions, assumptions, ideas, going round and round and round in his head, at lightning speed and blinding force. Sherlock clutched his curls in frustration; John Watson was so  _confusing_.

John Watson who said he was brilliant.

John Watson who thought he was ridiculous.

John Watson who had said that he was his  _friend_.

Surely Sherlock hadn't heard correctly. The other alternative was that John was terminally ill, with a tumour growing in his brain; tumours caused personality changes. This seemed more probable than the possibility that he had interest in being Sherlock's friend.  _Nobody_  had ever offered friendship before, and Sherlock had never considered anyone to be worthy of that position anyway. Friends were useless. End of story.

And here was this..this... _paradox_. Innumerable facts and data, inevitably adding up to John Watson. It didn't make sense. What could John possibly see in him? John was the sort of friendly, kind person that everybody liked; what could he possibly want with  _Sherlock_?

His head was spinning. And he felt strangely alone; the emptiness beside him where there had been a living, breathing person mere moments ago seemed like a physical thing. Then he told him to snap out of it. He was nobody's friend. And certainly not John's.  _Sentiment_.

He needed...he needed...he needed a smoke.

Sherlock dug his hands into his pockets, searching for the paper box of cigarettes and removed one, and took out his lighter. The lighter was actually Mycroft's. How he had risen to a position of such power in the government when he couldn't stop something as insignificant as a pick pocket, Sherlock had no idea.

Then he lit his cigarette and took a long drag. Oh, much better.  _So much better_. This, at least, was normal. This he was used to, and this he could handle. He breathed in the smoke, blowing out as it filled him from inside, feeling, maybe, not as better as he should have, but at least, now he could concentrate on the smoke rings wafting above him and not a certain pair of deep blue eyes.

 _Damn it_.

If a teacher found him here, smoking on the campus, he'd be expelled for sure. They'd say stupid things like 'he's a bad influence on the other students', 'one rotten apple ruins the whole cart', 'if he'd only stop being so disrespectful, Mr. Holmes,' and his parents would nod and agree that their son was a bitter disappointment to them. Then he'd be thrown out. Or maybe his parents would pay some more money and insist they keep him there. 'Beat him, if you must,' his father might say. 'Yes, yes,' his mother would join in. 'Anything to keep him in line.' 'You can understand what it would be for a family in our position to have this blotched all over the papers- we're willing to make any arrangements to keep our agreement in place..."

Sherlock tapped the cigarette and watched the ash falling off the tip.

But if he got expelled, he might never see John Watson again, now would he? That idea seemed far more unpleasant than it should have. He eyed the cigarette in his hands. It was almost over, anyway. He stubbed it beneath his foot.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock stayed underneath that tree for a long time; itching to light another cigarette but worried that if he smoked too much John would smell it on his breath or his clothes and disapprove of him and maybe never speak to him again. This seemed like an incredibly abhorrent possibility; and what he found even more abhorrent was the fact that he was taking such an  _interest_ in him. He ignored these thoughts, however, because what if he deluded himself into thinking that John Watson himself was abhorrent and decided not to speak to him? Sherlock did not trust his brilliance at the moment.

So instead after three classes were over, he went in search of John. It was lunch break, so John would probably be in the cafeteria...eating. Like a normal person. Was it really fair for Sherlock to impose his presence on him? Sherlock began nervously fiddling with his shirt cuffs while he walked towards the cafeteria, and that was when he noticed that his sleeves had been folded carelessly to his elbows and he groaned inwardly.  _Bloody hell_. John must have noticed. More reasons to run away and  _not_ force John to endure him.

Nevertheless, he  _did_ reach the cafeteria, and he got several glances from the students; some of them curious, some hostile, but most of them weary. It didn't take long for him to pluck out John Watson from the multitude of idiots sitting there discussing idiotic things; he was just that  _noticeable_. If there were a thousand John Watsons sitting there in the Hall, Sherlock would be able to point at  _his_ John Watson. Well, not  _his,_ because John didn't belong to him, he didn't mean it quite like that...(or did he?) Ugh.

That was when Sherlock stopped, and decided not to go to John; because he was laughing and talking to other people; and John looked quite  _happy_ and Sherlock felt this sudden fear that if he went there and stood in front of him, that smile would disappear, and if,  _if_ there was disappointment on that cheery face, Sherlock would not be able to take it. It had taken a great deal of effort to actually come here...into the presence of all these... _people_. So Sherlock stared at John for a few more seconds; and the group of laughing people around him, and then he turned around, and walked out.

 _Of course, of course OF COURSE_ , Sherlock thought frustratedly, almost venomously to himself, how could he have expected anything else? Those forty five minutes in the woods had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing, a bloody  _exception_ ; and Sherlock was a fool to think they would ever happen again. He walked out, hands digging determinedly into his pockets, his fingers brushing the packet of cigarettes, and he finally didn't care enough to not light them then and there, but that was when he was interrupted by an exceedingly annoying voice that said, "Look who it is. It's Freak." Then Anderson blocked his path, grinning almost sleazily at him, apparently very pleased with himself for recognizing Sherlock on sight.

Any other day, he would have gladly stood there, listened to his myriad results, and then retaliated in kind; because it meant that he got to insult him with the least bit of effort. But today, right now, Sherlock was not in the mood, and if Anderson annoyed him, he might just knock out a few teeth, and this time he wouldn't hesitate because he didn't care anymore about what John would think of him.

"Anderson, please don't be an idiot. I know it takes you an enormous amount of effort, but do try. Now get out of my way."

Anderson just grinned back. "We saw you in the woods with that new boy. Didn't know you were a poof."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. His insults were getting worse by the  _minute_. "I don't have time for this," he muttered, and side tracked him. This time his idiotic girlfriend blocked him.

"He teach you how to shag, Freak? Didn't know you even knew what that was." She crossed her arms and smiled maliciously.

"If you've got nothing to discuss except my sex life, I pity you," Sherlock deadpanned. "I would have thought your own would have kept you occupied, considering you spent the last class performing fellatio on Anderson. Or scrubbing the classroom floors. In your defense, you'd be better suited for the latter."

Sadie (or was it Sally?) was trying very hard to maintain a straight face but this was evidently a great feat for her. Anderson, on the other hand, had gone as red as a fire truck and was quite possibly thinking of a clever come back. He was failing. Obviously.

"You little perv," Sally finally seethed. "Is that what you do when you miss classes? Spy on people?"

Sherlock exhaled loudly. "If you were a particularly interesting patch of mold, maybe," he shrugged. "Unfortunately the only thing 'particular' about you is your idiocy, which you're displaying with alarming blatancy; what with this preposterous idea that I am, even vaguely interested in your lives. So do yourselves a favor; and, excuse my eloquence;  _fuck off_."

Sherlock was about to push past them, when he heard someone say, quite distinctly, "Is everything alright here?'

* * *

John had been annoyed. And this was saying something, because he was actually a very calm and level headed person. But Sherlock Holmes  _was annoying him_. Now, John wasn't arrogant enough to believe that Sherlock would like him as soon as he set eyes on him, but he  _knew_ he had been perfectly nice to that bloke, but then he refused to acknowledge his offer of friendship, and then he missed _three bloody classes_. How was that bloke still in school? John had hoped (and he was thoroughly annoyed with  _himself_ for hoping) that Sherlock would at least come for lunch. But no. He hadn't. He had half a mind to go and find him in the woods and drag him here and make him eat something and demand to know what was so terribly wrong with John Watson that he couldn't accept him as a friend when he  _clearly didn't have any_.

But then he told himself that he (Sherlock) was being an obnoxious git and why inflate that head even more by begging him for his presence? Yes, it was true that all of a sudden everyone had seemed terribly boring and dull after those forty five minutes with Sherlock; Sherlock with his elegant other-worldliness and bright eyes and sharp, harsh edges and lines, Sherlock with his dramatic cheekbones and that low, rumbling baritone of a voice; everyone he saw after that just paled by comparison. But he sat still and talked with them, and refused to think about him.

But when the bell rang and he had to go for class, like an idiot, he went and wrapped a sandwich in a napkin and put it in his pocket because he didn't like the idea of him missing lunch, and even though he hated that he was doing it, he couldn't  _bloody well help it_.

When John stepped outside, however, on to the lawns, he noticed Sherlock, alright, but he also saw two other people with him; a boy and the girl. They looked furious, and John didn't find it surprising, because they were with Sherlock; but he had got Sherlock a sodding sandwich, and he was going to force feed it to him if he had to. So he walked up to them, and he could  _feel_ the displeasure radiating off Sherlock.

"... _fuck off_."

"Is everything alright here?" he asked, slightly worried, because he hadn't heard Sherlock utter an expletive that viciously since he had come. He hoped, for the sake of his sanity, that these two weren't bullying him, because he would hate getting into a brawl on the first day of school itself.

Three heads swiveled in his direction. Sherlock was the first to speak.

"John," he rumbled, frowning at him, his lips slightly parting at the sight of him.

"Come here to pick your little boyfriend up?" the girl with the curly hair said scornfully.

"What?" John looked at her, his eyes narrowing.

"I expected you to try not to be an idiot in front of the new boy, Sally," Sherlock quipped. "It was your one chance to build a respectful image. Pity." He shook his head in mock disapproval. John couldn't help smiling at him.

"Cheers, mate."

The boy scowled at him. "The fact that the only friend the 'new boy' had made is you brings a few doubts to my head."

Sherlock looked unfazed with this thinly veiled insult, and was probably going to say something along the lines of 'You're an idiot' but John felt a sudden flare of anger and snapped at him, "I don't think it's any business of yours who I'm friends with. And the fact that you have nothing better to do than make stupid assumptions, well- that brings a few doubts to  _my_ head. And honestly, what was it that you had said, Sherlock?  _Fuck off_."

Both the boy and girl made utterly scandalized expressions, in too much of a shock to form a proper reply.

"Indeed. Come along, John." Sherlock walked away, leaving both of them glowering after him.

"You could do better than him, mate!" the boy called after him. John rolled his eyes.

"Who were they?" John asked, as they involuntarily began moving towards the woods.

"What?" Sherlock turned around to look at him, as if just noticing his presence. He licked his lips. "Uh. They're-uh-I don't know. Idiots." He fiddled with his shirt cuffs; John had realized they were a nervous habit. But what he had to be nervous about, he didn't know.

"Sherlock, you think  _everyone's_ an idiot."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed.

John rolled his eyes. "I'm asking you for their names, incidentally."

"The boy is Anderson, and the girl is Sally...something." He waved his hands dismissively. He needed to stop doing that. John found those fingers...distracting.

"Oh!" John exclaimed. "I forgot to give you this."

He stopped, putting his hand into his pocket to extract the sandwich, and he held it out to Sherlock, who was frowning at him, those grey-blue eyes confused.

"What is  _that_?" Sherlock asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Food," John answered. "You didn't come for lunch."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, still staring at John's hand, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, trying to deduce the bloody  _sandwich_. He was evidently trying to figure out  _why_ John was giving him food. God, for a brilliant bloke...

"You didn't come for lunch, so you probably didn't  _eat_ so, I thought..." John trailed off, feeling a bit confused himself. Maybe this was bad idea. Maybe Sherlock would just think he was weird and run away from him.

"You brought me sandwich," he finally settled upon stating, his voice low and calculating.

"Yes..."

"Because I didn't come for lunch."

"Yes."

"That was..." Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, " _Nice_ of you." He said the word like it felt unfamiliar on his lips.

"It was bloody  _self sacrificing,_ " John muttered. "Here." He took Sherlock hand and placed the sandwich in his palm. His skin was cool to touch.

"But I'm not hungry."

"Eat the sodding sandwich, Sherlock."

"But I don't—'

" _Eat it_."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, and he looked slightly fearful. His expression was almost comical. "Okay," he acquiescenced, unwrapping gingerly. He took a careful bite, watching John wearily.

John must have looked pleased to see him eating, because even Sherlock smiled slightly as he chewed. "You look happy," he observed.

"Yes. Don't take this personally, mate, but you're as thin as a rake. You could do with the extra calories."

"Digestion slows me down, John," he said grandly, sitting down underneath another tree.

"Slows you down? For  _what_?"

Sherlock stared at him, appalled that John was asking such an idiotic question. " _Thinking_ ," he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Eating food prevents you from...thinking?" John stared at him. Then he asked himself why he was so surprised. This was  _Sherlock_  they were talking about, for Christ's sake. Of course he would think the idea of something as mundane as  _food_  to be an obstacle to the workings of his brilliant brain.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Sherlock stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, making a particularly pained face, and then swallowed it with great difficulty.

"Easy with the dramatics, yeah?" John muttered, standing up and brushing the grass off his trousers. "It's not poison."

Sherlock looked offended. "I'm not being  _dramatic_. And where are you going?"

"To class." John held up his wrist so that Sherlock could see his silver wrist watch. "I'm already late. What with ensuring that you don't waste away from lack of food."

He rolled his eyes. "The human body can go for  _plenty_ of time without food, John. I doubt I would have  _wasted away_  within two hours."

John put up his hands in surrender. "Whatever, mate. Are you sure you don't want to come to class?"

"Do we have biology?"

"No, English."

"Then the answer is yes, I am sure."

"Why would you come for biology?" John asked, amused.

"Mr. Mason said he would bring frogs for the next experiment. I would have—"

"Stolen a couple of frogs," John finished, trying to suppress a smile. "Am I wrong?" He mimicked the same tone Sherlock had used while using the same phrase that very morning. He couldn't resist. It was so  _easy_ teasing Sherlock.

Sherlock gaped at him, that ridiculous bow of a mouth open wide. "I wouldn't do that," he muttered sheepishly, biting his lip guiltily.

"Yeah, you would," this time John laughed. "See you later. Don't go home without me."

He left for class.

* * *

_Don't go home without me don't go home without me don't go home without me don't go home..._

John's parting words swirled round and round in Sherlock's head, giving him that strange, fuzzy feeling he was becoming alarmingly familiar with, and which he was learning to associate with John Watson. Sherlock was confused again, and he  _hated_ being confused, because the purpose of his life was to know everything important, so he wouldn't have to face being  _confused_. Life was an equation, and Sherlock knew how to solve it, but then an unexpected variable had been dropped into it out of nowhere, and now neither sides of the equation matched.

This was  _detestable_.

Sherlock decided that he sort of kind of liked John Watson. Because this surprised him a great deal, he also decided to make a list to figure out  _why_ he liked him; this would make things easier to understand

1\. John Watson had called him 'brilliant'

2\. John Watson had gotten him a sandwich. ( A terrible sandwich, obviously; and he wasn't even remotely hungry, but he had noticed that Sherlock hadn't  _eaten_ ; his  _parents_ never remembered to feed him)

3\. John Watson knew that he would steal frogs from Mr. Mason's class and he hadn't been disgusted, abhorred, or shocked.

4\. John Watson had nice eyes.

The fourth point was irrelevant, and besides, it wasn't even true (or so Sherlock told himself, because well, his eyes weren't  _terrible_ , but they weren't that fantastic either, they were just a pair of fairly normal dark blue eyes which were, in fact a nice shade, but how did it matter anyway.); it was merely there for the purpose of balance; so that there would be an even number of things on the list.

But the rest of them were true enough, and Sherlock decided to be content with that. So he stacked it into an obscure corner of his Mind Palace, so that if he ever began to second guess his judgment again, he could refer to those four points. The fourth was irrelevant, of course. But it was always useful to remember.

Just as John had demanded, Sherlock did not, indeed, go home without him. He slung his bag over his shoulder and went to 11B where John had had his tedious class, to call him and ask him if he would like Sherlock to walk him to the station.

But when he got there, he found John leaning against the wall outside the classroom, talking to a girl.

Sherlock recognized her only vaguely; he knew she was part of this class, and he knew there was nothing particularly interesting or compelling about her, but John was obviously a terrible judge of character, because he was laughing at something she had said and she was just ceaselessly  _touching_ him and Sherlock couldn't stand it.

He was being crazy, irrational, and completely illogical, and more importantly, he was being an idiot. He could easily just stand there and wait politely for John to finish whatever inane conversation he would be having with that airhead of a girl; but at that moment, Sherlock figured that the only alternative was to go home without him. He tried not to feel guilty. It was tougher than he thought it would be. He considered going back, and even turned around a few times, but then that girl's stupid face would swim in front of his eyes and he would turn right around and keep walking.

He noticed a swanky black car parked at the gate in front, and even though everyone in this school probably had a swanky black car,  _this_ one was evidently Mycroft's. Obviously. He had retaliated to Sherlock's refusal to be dropped off with this forceful picking up. Sherlock could have run away, and taken the bus, or a taxi, or  _anything_ , but he didn't want to run into John again and he had an odd feeling that the car would trail behind him.

So he stomped to the car and opened the door with far more force than necessary, and tumbled into the backseat.

"You're being tiresome again," he mumbled, tucking his knees under his chin and wrapping his arms around his calves.

"I am under no doubt that I am," Mycroft replied smoothly, like he always did. He had a bloody answer for everything. "How was school?"

Sherlock flopped back dramatically, closing his eyes. "Tedious."

This wasn't completely true. School had been bloody fantastic today, until, well...well, that last bit had messed things up.

Mycroft locked eyes with him in rear view mirror, his pale eyes scrutinizing him. Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "What?" he snapped.

Mycroft shrugged. "Nothing. You missed class today again, Sherlock."

"If you wouldn't insist on putting me there on the first place, we wouldn't even be  _having_ this conversation." He loosened his tie, tugging almost forcefully on the thin scrap of material.

"Sherlock, let's not rehash this. You have to go to school." The car swerved left, entering the tree lined avenue that led into their estate.

Sherlock stared sullenly out the window, catching only a fleeting glance of a girl leaning against the fence in front of one of the houses.

"Stop the car," he ordered.

Mycroft pushed the brakes. "What  _is_ it, Sherlock?" he asked, tiredly.

"I need to get out. I've seen someone. I'll come home later."

Mycroft's lips turned down at the corners in disapproval. "Is it that Adler girl?"

Sherlock gave a odd, one shouldered shrug. "Maybe. Or maybe it's a serial murderer, and we're running off to plan a killing spree. I'll see you later, Mycroft." He opened the door and stepped out. Mycroft only sighed, exceptionally irritated, and drove off.

* * *

Irene smirked at him as he walked up to her.

She leaned her shoulder against the fence, her bright red lipsticked lips turning up in a smile. If you looked at Sherlock and Irene standing next to each other; you could almost mistake them for siblings. The same high cheekbones, the silvery blue eyes, the dark hair, the pale skin; the regal good looks. But whereas Sherlock would have looked at place between the pages of a romantic sonnet, being recited against the background of Vivaldi, Irene Adler had been crafted to be the heroine of an erotic novel, amidst loud rock music and guitar riffs.

Irene was dressed in tiny denim shorts, her slim legs ending in a pair of scruffy black boots, her cropped tank top exposing several inches of her stomach, and the sparkly diamond pierced in her navel; a cigarette was gripped lightly between her fingers, and she puffed out some smoke slowly, right in Sherlock's face.

"Hello, darling," she drawled. "Come to see me?" She was a few years older than him, maybe eighteen or nineteen, an inch or two shorter than Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned against the fence behind her. "I wanted to speak to you."

She raised a dark eyebrow. "Speak to me? What about, love?"

She inhaled some more smoke.

"I met a boy today," he murmured, stroking his bottom lip with one long, index finger.

She grinned. "A boy? What kind of boy?"

"That's what I'm confused about. I don't know what kind of boy he is."

"Sherlock Holmes, confused? That's a first."

She stepped in front of him this time, uncomfortably close, like always; plucking the cigarette from her mouth and slipping it inside Sherlock's lips. It was still slightly wet at the tip. "Have a smoke and clear your head." He looked down at her, the cigarette dangling from his mouth; he could smell her familiar scent; expensive perfume mixed with cheap alcohol.

He laced it between his fingers and inhaled. "I've been trying to," he explained. "It's been proving difficult."

Her grey eyes sparkled with amusement. "What's his name?"

"John. John Watson," Sherlock said the same slowly, relishing the feel of it on his tongue.  _John John John John._

"Mmm," she trailed her index finger down his chest. "Such a mundane name. Not quite as posh as Sherlock Holmes."

"It's a good name," Sherlock stiffened under her touch, slightly uncomfortable, like he always was; but she didn't notice or care. She rarely did. But she was one of the few people who didn't run away from him on sight, and she didn't make small talk. So he tolerated her. "Steady. Solid."

"Good looking bloke?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I guess." He ran a hand through his curls. "He's not even  _that_ remarkable," he said loudly. "And I've just known him for a day. I'm being an idiot."

"Darling. We're all idiots when it comes to love," she removed the cigarette from his lips, inhaled, and popped it back inside his mouth.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he scoffed.

 _One nice word about someone and now he was in love? Irene Adler was more of an idiot than he thought_.

She blew out the smoke, staring lazily at him. "What do you want from me, Sherlock? Advice? Stop being a prat and be nice to him."

"I was  _very_ nice to him."

Irene laughed. "I doubt that, darling. You were probably nice- _er_ than you are to most people, and because you're so much of a wanker, I don't think that's any accomplishment."

Sherlock scowled. "I'm not a wanker."

"Oh, yes you are." She ran a thumb down the side of his face, dragging down the corner of his bottom lip. "Now, run along home, Holmes. And give Johnny Boy a call."

This time Sherlock slipped the cigarette into her lips. "I don't have his number," he argued.

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" he pale eyes twinkled.

Sherlock licked his lips. "No, not really."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Fine."

Then she gripped his tie in her hands, pulling him down, and she spread the other palm on his midsection, pushing him against the fence, and smashed her lips to his. Sherlock gripped the cold metal rods behind him, so hard his knucle went white, screwing his eyes shut allowing her to kiss him, because it seemed like he should give her  _something_ in return for tolerating his company. She skimmed the bottom of his lip with her tongue, but Sherlock did not open his mouth, and that was when she pulled away.

"Such a tease, Sherlock. I hope you put those fantastic lips to use and kiss this boy you're so confused about." She smirked.

The sentence caused Sherlock's heart to make an involuntarily leap inside his chest, but he ignored it. "Don't be ridiculous," he muttered, wiping the lipstick off his mouth.

"Sherlock Holmes, you just ran out of your brother's posh car to tell me that you made a friend today," She pulled his hand away from his lips and dragged her own fingers across them instead, making quick work of the red smudge. " _You're_ the one being ridiculous. Now go home."

And Sherlock did go home after that, smelling of Irene's perfume and her second hand smoke, thinking about how she had proposed he put his 'bloody fantastic' lips to good use. He wondered idly if John thought his lips were bloody fantastic. Then he started thinking about  _John's_ lips and realised  _they_ were bloody fantastic and he decided to add it to the list of reasons he liked him.

Then he shook his head to rid himself of those sinful thoughts.

Irene had been right, after all. He  _was_ being ridiculous.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

John wasn't particularly interested in what Sarah had to say. He hadn't liked her much since her snarky comment about Sherlock, but he didn't want to be rude, either, so he obliged and spoke to her, about stupid things like mid-term dances or whether he played rugby or football. In response to her question, actually, he played football but enjoyed rugby more. But he didn't reply because he didn't think giving her an answer was a necessity.

But the minutes kept on going by and John gave up to look from the corner of his eye or out the window, whilst pretending to do something completely different, because clearly Sherlock was nowhere around. Then he gave some excuse to Sarah which he couldn't even remember himself, because it was probably as idiotic as their conversation had been. Then he left, and he walked down the corridor to see if Sherlock was lurking in some corner of a locker, or a classroom, or maybe even the washroom-  _anywhere_ , in fact, but he couldn't find him at all. He asked a whole bunch of people whether they had seen him, or not, but they just looked at him strangely and walked on.

The worst part was seeing Sally and her arsehole boyfriend, who smirked and exchanged knowing glances when they saw John calling for Sherlock. John wanted to knock both their heads together.

So then he went outside, and ran around the ground like a madman, and then he went into the woods, under that big tree (he would never forget it now) but he  _could not find him_. John checked his watch. 4:00, and class was over at 3:15. Finally John had to face the inevitable conclusion that Sherlock had, indeed, gone home without him.

 _Then_ John sat down for a few seconds under the tree, partly because he was tired of running around looking for him, and partly because he suddenly felt miserable.

It had been good day, he thought. John had thought that he would be unerringly lonely on the first day of school, but then he met Sherlock and he was glad, because he was an obnoxious arse but he was also wonderful, and John had enjoyed his company. But now John was doubting it, because hadn't Sherlock told him that very morning that he did not have friends? So, as hard as John may try to convince himself, Sherlock obviously did not care for him very much at all.

So he did the things he would have done whether he had met Sherlock today or not; he picked his sister up from school, and he took a train, and after the depressing journey home which was made only slightly more entertaining with his sister's monologue about how lovely her day had been, he finally came home.

Then his mother asked him, "How was your day?" and she gave him his favourite lunch, and he said, "It was wonderful."

Which was actually, if he thought about it, quite true; it  _had_ been wonderful, but maybe John was thinking far too ahead of himself, and he wondered if maybe tomorrow he should ask Sherlock why he had just run off home without even informing John, when they had clearly agreed that they would go home together.

Then it dawned upon John that Sherlock had never technically  _agreed_ to this, that he had just stared at John when he had proposed, no  _told_ him, so maybe Sherlock didn't like being told to do something?

He didn't know. He pushed his half eaten plate of food away, and discretely slid it on the floor for Gladstone to devour, and tumbled into his bed because he didn't know what else to do.

* * *

When Sherlock got home, surprisingly, his parents were home. His father was seated on the couch, wearing one of his particularly boring grey suits, and a grey tie, (Sherlock  _detested_ ties, almost as much as he detested his father) and everything about him was so boring and dull that Sherlock didn't even stop to say hello; he just proceeded to the stairs to fall asleep in his bed. But then his father called him back.

"Now, wait just a moment, young man," he said. So Sherlock sighed, and rolled his eyes and turned around, glaring at the back of his father's head.

"What?" he snapped.

"Don't take that tone with your father, Sherlock." And then his mother came out of nowhere, also dressed in a boring suit, her boring glasses perched on her boring nose.

"What tone?" he asked, in that vaguely uninterested voice of his. But in reality, he was not  _vaguely_ uninterested. He was not interested at all in conversing with his parents.

"That tone that you just used. Sherlock, please stand in front of us. Refusing eye contact is a sign of cowardice." His father folded up the newspaper that he was pretending to read and didn't even turn around.

Sherlock longed to pick something up and throw it at him, because he was many loathsome, detestable things, but he was certainly not a  _coward_. And his father was in no position to say that he was, because he was the most cowardly person he had seen in his life. But he didn't, because Mycroft would be disappointed in him. Well, not that he cared greatly for his opinion; he didn't care even remotely about it, but Mycroft expected him to do something drastic like that and Sherlock did not want to give him the satisfaction of being right. He was right far too often and this had to be prevented.

So he balled his fists by his side and walked in front of his father and then asked again, "What?"

"Sherlock, stop being rude. Sit down, we wish to speak to you." His mother sniffed and sat down next to his father. Then they surveyed him with slight disgust and slight weariness on their faces, like Sherlock was a particularly slimy, venomous snake that they had to confront and were not happy about. Sherlock intimidated them, he knew; but as parents they believed that they were in a position of authority so they could not allow this.

He sat down. "Will you please tell me what the both of you are doing here in the middle of the day when you should obviously be working doing the things you normally do? Talking to me isn't one of them."

"This passive aggressive behaviour will not do, young man," his father always called him 'young man'. Like saying his name would reiterate the fact that Sherlock was in some way related to him, which his father normally didn't like admitting to.

"Where's Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. He was not greatly fond of Mycroft, obviously; but whenever his parents insisted on these tedious conversations, Mycroft was always around and he was the one who would inevitably put an end to them by saying inane things like 'Sherlock is tired' or 'Sherlock has homework to do' which were never true and downright funny, because Sherlock was rarely tired and he never did his homework. But Mycroft's cool, polite voice did wonders on his parents and he never had to endure it longer than necessary. But today Mycroft was not at home. This complicated matters.

"Mycroft is working and doing useful things because he is mature, Sherlock. Unlike you." His mother stared stonily at him.

"Is there a point to this discussion, Mother?" Sherlock doubted calling her by her name would make any difference.

"You've missed your classes again today. And the one class you  _did_ go to, you were thrown out; for being disrespectful to the teacher concerned. Explain yourself." His father folded his hands in his lap and looked at Sherlock with polite interest.

Sherlock sighed. "What would you like me to explain?"

"Why did you do this?"

"Why do you think?"

"Don't answer a question with a question."

"Don't ask stupid questions."

"Were you smoking?"

"Irrelevant to this discussion."

"Answer me, Sherlock."

"Yes."

Both his parents sighed and shook their heads. "We try very hard to inculcate certain values in you, Sherlock. But you refuse to adhere to them. See how well we have done with Mycroft; then why are we failing with you?" His mother tried to look devastated. She could not manage this.

"This may come as a surprise to you," Sherlock replied, standing up. "But I don't want to speak to either of you. Good afternoon."

Then he turned around and walked away, and his parents did not stop him. Because his parents did not care.

Sherlock navigated through the scientific and chemical debris that was his room, and collapsed on his bed, fully clothed.

Today was turning out to be a most  _tiresome_ day, no matter how fantastically it had started. Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, now allowing himself to think about John. If he closed his eyes, he could picture him perfectly; with his roundish face and strong jaw, his messy, dirty blonde hair, and his eyes; dark blue and bright and  _intelligent_.

What should he do? He desperately wanted to hear his voice. It seemed like  _ages_ ago since he had heard him speak, although in reality it had been roughly 2 hours and 17 minutes. Sherlock had counted.

He would never call John to his house when his parents were home, he decided. The consequences of that would be devastating. His parents would be shocked to see that Sherlock had succeeded in communicating with another intelligent life form, and they would be all over him like the plague. Asking him silly questions about what they talked about, or whether Sherlock had a girlfriend; and they would scare him off and he would never see him again.

It would also not do for him to see Mycroft. Mycroft had the most terrible effect on people. This was probably because he was so terrible himself.

Sherlock grabbed his skull from the beside table and stared at the yellow bone and the hollow sockets. Sherlock adored the skull. Well, 'adore' was a strong word. Sherlock found the skull more tolerable than most members of the human race. Today he held the skull in his hands and turned it over and looked at it from every possible angle and couldn't find  _what_ he had found so interesting about it in the first place. It was just a  _bloody skull_.

Sherlock knew how to procure John's number. It would actually be laughably easy. But this was not the root of the problem. The root of the problem was the question as to whether John wanted to speak to him at all. Sherlock had been...slightly unstable, when he had seen John with that stupid girl, but now all he could think about was that sodding sandwich that John had forcibly made him eat and all his brain could manage was  _john john john john_. Not hearing his voice until the next day seemed an impossible task and Sherlock didn't know if he could manage it.

In truth, the answer was in the negative.

But Sherlock had broken a promise, and with John's sense of loyalty (Clearly; the way he had swooped in on Anderson and Sally because he had the idea that Sherlock was being threatened) he deduced that this would not be taken lightly. The idea that John would possibly  _cease_ interaction with Sherlock based on this horrific lapse of judgement was terrifying. At the moment, Sherlock could not comprehend the possibility of not having John Watson to look forward to the next day.

Oh, Sherlock  _knew_. He knew that this kind of fixation on a person was dangerous. But he was suddenly fascinated with him and everything he had done that day and  _he needed to speak to John and apologise_.

He grabbed his phone and dialled a number.

"Sherlock, I do hope you are not calling to inform me that you have burnt down the school building or strangled the neighbour's cat or something equally tiresome." Mycroft answered lazily.

"Don't be a fool, Mycroft. I don't care enough for either of those things to actually take the effort to cause  _harm_ to them. No, I want a favour from you."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock could  _hear_ the smirk from the other end of the line.  _Ugh. This was degrading. Why was he doing this again? Oh yes. John._

"Don't make me repeat myself. You know I detest repetitions. You heard me. Will you do it or not?"

"Depending on whether the favour involves theft of government property, or any kind of felony, and depending on how nicely you ask, we'll see."

"It doesn't involve either of those things. In fact, it is absolutely danger free and nobody will get arrested. And how nicely am I supposed to ask?"

"I would like you to use the words, 'Could you please do me a favor please, Mycroft, please?"

"That sentence is redundant. What's the point of using the word 'please' so many times?"

"Consider it payback, brother mine. Also, it's a lovely thing to imagine you grovelling."

"I am not going to  _grovel_."

"Then you may ask someone else to perform this favour for you."

"Why are you so awful?"

"Goodbye, Sherlock..." his voice trailed off.

"Wait."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut. He was going to  _kill_ his brother as soon as he obtained a viable murder weapon. Poison, while available in abundance in this very room, was a relatively painless way to go. No, he would require something better.

"Could you  _please_ do me a favour, Mycroft?"

"Fair enough. What do you need?" Mycroft's tone had become its usual clipped, let's-do-business one.

"I need you to get me a number."

* * *

John was doing his homework when his mother called him from downstairs.

"John! It's for you, love!"

John climbed down. "Who is it?" he asked, approaching his mother, who was gripping the receiver tightly.

"I forgot; it's a fancy, posh name. Something with S?"

 _Sherlock_.

John snatched the phone from her with rather more force than required and literally shouted into the receiver, "Hello?"

There was silence at the other end for a few seconds. If John listened very closely, he could hear the distinct sound of someone breathing.

"Hello?" he said again uncertainly.

"John." And just like that, with just one word, Sherlock's deep, luxuriant voice washed over him and he breathed a sigh of relief because  _Sherlock had called him_.

Then he suddenly snapped, "How did you get my number?" He realised that sounded a bit rude, but then again; Sherlock had waltzed off home without him. He was entitled to a bit of rudeness, he reasoned.

"My brother got it for me," he said simply; like he was stating a fact, like his number was an apple on a tree and this brother of his had plucked it and handed it to Sherlock.

"You have a brother?" John supposed there were many more pertinent questions to ask, like  _who the bloody hell_  was  _his brother_ , but this tumbled out of his mouth instead.

John could almost hear the eye roll.

"Yes. And you should know that he is a terrible topic of discussion, so the sooner we abandon it, the better."

 _Hmm. Sibling Rivalry? Interesting_. "So. I'm guessing you called because you have something far more interesting to discuss?" John didn't bother to keep the sarcasm out of his voice; because he remembered that he was supposed to be  _pissed_ with Sherlock.

Sherlock would be nervously fiddling with his shirt cuffs, he thought.

"Uh. Well." This was new and funny to John, because in all of the two hours he had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never once stammered.

"Go on," he encouraged, leaning against the wall leisurely. "I've got all day."

"I...called to...well. Uh. Apologise."

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that. Care to repeat it?" Christ, this was fun. He felt bad about teasing Sherlock, (it was so easy, he thought; partly because Sherlock didn't quite understand the concept of a 'joke' and consequently ended up taking everything quite seriously) but he would make it up to Sherlock by...by...what exactly would he do? His mind considered a variety of possibilities, and each of them more appallingly inappropriate than the last.  _Where the hell had they come from?_

"John, you're not making this any easier," Sherlock sounded like a sullen teenager, and as pissed as John was, he couldn't help but find it so endearingly  _adorable_.

"I never planned to."

Sherlock groaned. "Oh god. What else do I say? I promised you that I wouldn't go home without you and I did and I feel terrible and stupid and I'm sorry. Is this good enough for you?"

And then John's mouth dropped open, because Sherlock had said it all in one desperate rush, and he actually sounded  _hurt_ and  _sad_ and John didn't even know how he could tell all that from one sentence, but he knew that this apology had taken a tremendous amount of effort from his part and suddenly it became all-consumingly important to him that make Sherlock see that  _it was okay_.

"It's alright," he said hastily. "it's fine, really. It's okay."

"Okay?" Sherlock echoed.

"Yes, it's okay. You can calm down now."

"I am very calm."

"Of course you are," John muttered under his breath with the full intention of Sherlock hearing.

"Is that sarcasm?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay. I'm not very good with sarcasm."

"I can see that."

"Are you being sarcastic again?"

John smiled, in spite of himself. "No, I'm not. But I have to go and finish homework."

" _Homework_?" Sherlock spat it out like it was a dirty word. "Why on earth would you waste your time with  _that_?"

"Not all of us are geniuses, mate. We unfortunate idiots have to make our way in the world doing tiresome, mundane things like  _homework_."

"I don't think you're an idiot. Very well, go do this homework that you speak so highly of."

"Cool. Bye."

"We're okay?" Sherlock asked, his voice once again uncertain and weary.

"'Course we are."

"And I will see you tomorrow in school?"

John rolled his eyes and grinned at the same time. "Yes, of course you will."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said brightly, and hung up.

John stared at the receiver in hand. Sherlock thought meeting John the next day would be 'brilliant.'

Brilliant.

* * *

Mycroft stared curiously at the file open in front of him on the computer and _thought_.

Today had been an exceedingly strange day. It had started out fairly normal, with a fairly normal squabble with Sherlock, and the fairly normal event of Sherlock being tiresome and refusing to be dropped off, and then he had gone to work, which was as usual, dull. Sherlock had missed most of his classes, which was also not out of the ordinary.

So, naturally, it came as a surprise when Sherlock called him with this one request:  _Get me a number_. And whose number was it? An unremarkable, average looking 16 year old boy by the name of John Watson.

Having a brother like Sherlock, Mycroft considered a plethora of explanations for this odd behaviour, the first being the most believable; John Watson had committed a murder. Although it was the most convincing, nothing on his record would show that he had come even close to taking someone's life. This was why it was so strange that Sherlock would find him even remotely interesting.

He had lived a fairly ordinary life until this point; gone to a decent school a train ride away, then gotten a scholarship from there and transferred to Sherlock's fairly expensive public school instead. He was bright, he guessed; academically, at least; had a single mother, a younger sister, his father had been in the Army (interesting) and had not committed any felonies till date.

Which all begged the question of  _why_.

Sherlock had never had a friend in his entire life. The golden rule that he lived by was 'Everyone is an Idiot except me and occasionally Mycroft." Even the last bit he detested to admit. But the fact of the matter was that Sherlock  _did_ believe in a higher power, the only difference being that in this case, it was himself. Sherlock thought himself to be exceptionally, impossibly clever and he had never displayed  _any_ inclination towards interacting with  _people_. He was anti-social in the extreme, and while all the doctors and specialists and experts had deemed his IQ higher than most adults, he was remarkably ignorant about human nature. So, the end result being;  _Sherlock did not have friends_.

Mycroft decided to not come to the conclusion that Sherlock had made this boy his friend. Possibly, this was some sort of twisted experiment which would last for a few days. Then at the end of the week, the Sherlock he knew would return to dissecting frogs and examining poisonous fungi in his room for hours on end.

Yet Mycroft could not simply assume that this friendship would be bad for his brother. He rather hoped that he  _was_ wrong and Sherlock had finally found someone he found agreeable and was cultivating a  _relationship_. True, Mycroft did not put any importance  _in_ these so called relationships, yet only an idiot would fail to notice that his brother was desperately lonely.

And although he cared for his brother in his own way, he had been unsuccessful in driving away that loneliness that had made Sherlock into who he was; including the drugs.  _Especially_ the drugs.

He wondered if Sherlock actually had the ability to sustain the relationship he had begun, assuming if he had begun it all. Most people didn't take too kindly too insults, and Sherlock usually conversed in insults.

Maybe it was an experiment, after all.

For Sherlock's sake, he hoped he was wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock woke up that morning with a most curious sensation in his chest. He felt  _excited_ about something, and it took him a few seconds to pin point exactly what he was feeling so strongly about.

It took him less than a few seconds, actually.  _John_.

Sherlock rarely woke up before someone had actually knocked his door down, but today was different. Today he had an actual  _reason_ to go to school, the previous one being four years ago when that senior girl had killed herself and Sherlock had decreed that it was not a suicide. It was food poisoning, actually, and the police had realised that a month after Sherlock had said so, which was sixteen hours after she had been declared dead. Ugh. People were so  _stupid_. They'd get on so much better if they just agreed with everything he said.

Sherlock pulled over his uniform, but was annoyed to find that his tie had been untied from the usual knot he simply pulled over his head. He didn't want to get sent out of class today (he probably _would_ be, though, but he hoped that it would be for something more dramatic and not because  _he hadn't worn his tie_.) So he stuffed it in his pocket instead, and grabbed his bag, ready to sprint down the stairs- when he paused for a moment to  _think_ about the...needles stuffed right at the bottom of his bag and he considered, only for a moment, should he remove them? _If John saw them_...but no. _Too soon._ He didn't need them, not now...but...it was too soon.

He ran down the stairs.

Mycroft peered at him over the newspaper he was reading as Sherlock stood over the dining table, scrunching his nose distastefully at the breakfast that had been laid out.

"You're up early today," he quipped.

" _What_ an  _excellent_ observation, Mycroft. It's hardly a mystery to me that the security of the free world lies in your hands." He grabbed some toast from the plate and munched.

"I hope you know that I have recorded you begging me for a favour yesterday, and I intend to use it against you," Mycroft replied, unperturbed.

Sherlock scowled. "Recording of telephone conversations is illegal."

"Not if one party is aware of it, it isn't." Mycroft smiled at him; the mocking smile that both Holmes brothers had perfected over the years.

"I hope you're dropping me off today," Sherlock said primly, steering the conversation in a different direction.

Mycroft raised both his eyebrows, immediately lowering the newspaper. "You want me to drop you off?"

Sherlock smirked. It was such a lovely thing to catch Mycroft off guard. "Yes. Can you? Or will you leave me to fend for myself in  _public transport_?" He said the word 'public transport' like one would say 'rancid faces'.

Mycroft kept looking at him curiously. "I am finding this entire situation highly unbelievable. Tell me-" he leaned forward, resting his chin on slender, interlaced fingers. "Does this uncharacteristic behaviour have something to do with John Watson?"

Sherlock groaned.  _Of course Mycroft would react like this._

"It was a mistake to ask you," he grumbled, tearing off the toast like a rabid wolf. "He's just someone I know." This seemed like a most ridiculous description of John, but Sherlock couldn't possibly have Mycroft making assumptions and  _saying_ things. This...thing...whatever...he had with John, was like a fragile and delicate secret that he wanted to keep with himself, lest it be shattered by someone's words or prying eyes.

"A boy whose number you begged for,  _from me_. I could have had your conversation recorded, but I didn't. Thanks are in store, I think. Social convention, you see, brother mine."

"That would have been an invasion of privacy."

"An offense you know very well I will not be arrested for."

"Mycroft, I called him to ask about his sister. She was tragically murdered last year and everyone assumes it's suicide. I think differently." Sherlock didn't even flinch once while saying this blatant lie, but the skepticism on Mycroft's face did not go amiss.

"I see," he replied coolly, folding the newspaper, only the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. Sherlock  _detested_ that smirk. He wanted that smirk to be gone  _at once_ , but anything he said that would result in that would prove that he was lying a second ago, so he merely gritted his teeth and finished the rest of his toast. "Let's drop you off."

* * *

Sherlock had never been so glad to come to school in his life.

But, like he had earlier mused; today was different.

He had stepped out of the car, eager to run down the field and look for John, but Mycroft rolled down the window and called him just before he could.

"Sherlock," he said, sombrely. Sherlock whipped his head around.

"What?" he snapped.

"If you have a reason for attending classes, please attend them. I don't want our parents paying an unnecessary visit to your school again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock frowned at him, trying to deduce why exactly Mycroft was saying this. If he stared getting sentimental at a simple  _mention_ of Sherlock with another person...ugh. This was going in a most sickening direction.

"Yes," he replied, trying to keep the snappishness out of his voice. "I get it. I'll see you later."

Then he ran off.

He had to wait in class for a few minutes before he saw John. He walked into class, looking especially dishevelled, not at all like the neat and tidy self he had displayed to Sherlock yesterday. This morning he hadn't taken the train, been dropped off by his mother, presumably, and he had played rugby this morning, not football. Obviously enjoyed himself more. He had forgotten to feed his dog this morning, then, too.

"Hey," he greeted him, and just like that, all of Sherlock's thought processes came to a grinding halt. John Watson had walked into that empty classroom, and suddenly it  _wasn't_ an empty classroom, it was like..it was like...it was something wonderful and Sherlock quite possibly felt the beginnings of sentiment, which he should have felt disgusted by, but this time, today, it just felt right.

"Hi," Sherlock said, and his voice sounded unnaturally shrill to his ears.

John dropped into the seat next to him, depositing his bag with a loud  _thunk_ on the floor next to him.

"So I hope you don't run away home without me today." John grinned at him, and Sherlock mentally catalogued that grin into his mind palace, because it was the most wonderful thing he had seen for a while.  _Stop it_ , he told himself.  _This is getting out of hand_.

Sherlock ran a hand nervously through his hair. "I assume you're joking?" he asked.

John laughed. "God, yes, Sherlock. Of course I'm joking." Then his gaze went down to Sherlock's bare neck.

"Where's your tie?" he asked.

Sherlock made a face. "I don't wear ties," he announced.

"Yes you do. You wore one yesterday. Where is it?"

Sherlock's nose twitched. "I don't have it," he replied grandly.

"Liar," John grinned. "You don't know how to wear a tie, do you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tried to look offended. "Yes I do," he insisted. "I'm just  _choosing_ not to wear a tie. It's a conscious decision on my part."

"Give me your tie, Sherlock." John held out his hand.

"What?"

"Give me your tie. I'll do it for you."

Sherlock licked his lips, staring for a few seconds at John's outstretched hand. Then, like a little child caught with his hand stuck in the proverbial cookie jar, extracted his tie from his pocket and placed it on John's palm.

"Knew it," John looked very pleased with himself. Sherlock didn't mind it quite so much. Pleased John was a sight to behold. "Come closer."

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked right into John's dark blue eyes. He felt his mouth dry.

"I can't tie this around your neck when you're five feet away from me. Come closer."

"Okay," Sherlock said, seemingly capable of only saying one word. He scooted his chair closer and stretched his neck out.

"Mmm," John muttered approvingly, and looped the material around his neck, tying it briskly. Sherlock felt a most curious sensation in his stomach when John's warm fingers would occasionally brush against skin. He half hoped that John would just tug the tie and pull him closer and then—

"There you go," John said, pulling Sherlock out of that most appalling reverie. He moved back immediately, clearing his throat, touching the tie that was now perfectly hanging down his neck.

"Thanks," he muttered.

John smiled, leaning his head back against the edge of his chair. Sherlock was rapidly trying to control his breathing, searching for something,  _anything_  in that brilliant mind of his, that would help him stop hyperventilating. He was never going to wear a tie for the rest of his life, he decided. Not if John was going to tie it for him instead.

* * *

John's fingers were buzzing from where they had made contact with Sherlock's skin.  _God,_ what was  _wrong_ with him? If any kind of interaction with Sherlock would make him giddy and stupid, well, he had to get a hold on himself.

Surprisingly, Sherlock had stayed for the first class. Well, he had  _tried_ to, at least. It was Social Science, which John had a feeling Sherlock absolutely loathed. If he didn't care to know that the earth revolved around the sun, he doubted he cared which country had what kind of political system.

Of course, Sarah's stares and Edmund's stares, and the great deal of general  _staring_ didn't seem to make anything easier. But John really didn't see how caring about it was going to help. So he just sat in his seat in the last row (he hadn't particularly wanted to sit so far away, but Sherlock had doggedly insisted that if he was going to sit here at all, it was certainly not going to be anywhere  _close_ to 'that utter fool')

"Do you know, John," he whispered conspiratorially into his ear during class, "That Mr. Bradston is currently having problems with his wife?"

John turned to him, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock was looking back at him, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips, looking sickeningly pleased with himself.

"Yeah? Why?"

It was half a challenge and half indulgence; he knew Sherlock had a logical basis for his assumptions, and he also knew that Sherlock  _loved_ to show off. So he let him, half hoping he would say something silly and he could tease him good-naturedly.

"See the coat he's draped over the back of the chair? It's filthy. And his clothes too; he's utterly shabby. He's married, you see- look at the ring- which wife would let him walk out of the house like that? Obviously one that doesn't care greatly for him. That, coupled with fact that a few minutes ago he received a phone call- the ringtone is personalised, so someone special. Wife. He looked abhorrently hopeful when he saw who it was and he scurried out of class to take it, but he came back in ten seconds later looking dejected. Wife, who didn't have much to say to him besides something practical. His clothes are expensive, but old- I'd reckon three or fourth months, which is possibly when they had the fall out. And don't even get me started on—"

"Mr. Holmes," the teacher snapped. "Is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"

 _Please don't be a smart arse please don't be a smart arse PLEASE DON'T BE A SMART ARSE_ , John prayed, but...

"I don't know. I assume it would be inappropriate of me to make a public display of your dismal matrimonial affairs," he countered readily.

The class went silent. Somebody whispered, " _Busted_."

"Sherlock!" John hissed at him, but he just looked at him with an expression that clearly said,  _What? It's not like I'm lying. He had it coming. He's an idiot._

Mr. Bradston's mouth opened and closed several times, reminding John of a fish. Then his face flushed with anger and he spat out, "Get out of my class! I should be taking you to the principal!"

"Ye-e-es," Sherlock replied vaguely, picking up his bag, "But you won't because you know I'll tell him, and you don't want him to know that you've been deprived of your wife's love."

The class burst into ill-suppressed laughter, but John just smacked his palm to his forehead.  _Who else but Sherlock?_

" _OUT."_ The teacher snapped again, and Sherlock rolled his eyes before whispering to John,

"See, John.  _Exactly_ why I detest lessons. See you after class."

John was trying to glare at him, but he couldn't resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Sherlock stalk away.

* * *

The only reason Sherlock had stayed for class was because he would be able to sit next to John. He expected to get thrown out of class in any case, but this, at least, was a record for him; he had actually spent thirty five of the forty five minutes within the classroom.

Now, of course, he had nothing to do for the next ten minutes, and he could  _feel_ the boredom eating away at him again, the dullness of the world seeming to almost suffocate him.

He really wanted to smoke, but he didn't want John to know- and he would, obviously. So he just went to the woods, knowing that John would come sooner or later.

So he leaned against the trunk of the tree, closed his eyes...

...and snapped them open. Who was coming? John? No...someone bigger than John, taller...

"What's up, Holmes?"

Sherlock groaned.  _Victor Trevor_.

* * *

John didn't even have to look for Sherlock, he knew exactly where he would be. So he wasn't surprised to find him there, but he  _was_ surprised to see another boy with him.

Sherlock turned to him sharply as soon as he saw John, his blue-grey eyes almost greedily taking in the sight, hardly giving him the chance to wonder who the boy was. "John," he said his name almost reverently. "Please rescue me from this boredom," he flopped dramatically down on the grass. "I'll even come with you for class. Even..even  _English."_ His voice was muffled against his hands, which were covering his face, and all he could see of it were the dark curls spilling over the tips of his fingers.

"Drama queen, isn't he?" John finally turned to the boy. He was almost as tall as Sherlock, but more strongly built, with fair hair and tanned skin, a friendly smile on his face as he stretched out his hand for a shake.

John shook it. "Sorry, I don't—"

"Victor Trevor. I'm in 11A, you haven't met me yet."

"Ah," John nodded understandingly, still trying to process the way he had said  _drama queen_  almost affectionately, in the tone  _he_ normally used for Sherlock, the  _yes-he-is-an-idiot-but-I-kind-of-like-it_ one.

"And you don't  _have_ to meet him," Sherlock scoffed, jumping up. "Trevor, this is John Watson, please don't feel obligated to speak to him. John, don't we have class or something equally dreadful to go for? Come along, now."

"Excuse him," John said apologetically, ignoring Sherlock's expression of betrayal even as he said those words.  _How dare you ignore me John don't you see this person is terrible let's get out of here_ it said. "He doesn't really—"

"Oh, he does, I assure you," but he said it without any hint of venom. "Saw this idiot moping about alone so I thought I'd give him company."

John found it difficult to form a reply so it just came out as, "You...give him... _company_?" Who in their right minds would plop down next to Sherlock when he was, as Victor had so eloquently put it, 'moping'? Did people actually  _do_ that? Were there more of them? And why did Sherlock dislike him so much? There were far too many questions in John's head and no answers.

"Why are we still having this conversation?" Sherlock waved his arms about dramatically. "We've introduced ourselves. Told each other our names. Now that the entire process is over, aren't we supposed to part ways? Do you two have  _any_ idea at all what social convention entails?" He turned to John. "John. We must leave. At once. I'm fairly sure we have English."

"Sherlock, stop it. Sorry," he apologised to Victor again, who was looking at the now petulant Sherlock with wry amusement on his face. "So, you know Sherlock?"

"Oh I'm sure  _he_ knows everything about me. He can probably tell what kind of ketchup I had this morning—"

"You didn't  _have_ ketchup this morning," Sherlock interjected sullenly. He had plopped down on the grass again, knees drawn up, arms thrown to the side, staring at the sky with an annoyed expression.

"Of course he would know that," Victor muttered, then turning to John, "Two years ago he helped me with a family problem. Dad was having a bit of a trouble, unfortunately I didn't ask him for help until Dad dropped- but he unravelled it all like a loose sweater."

"He did?" John wasn't very surprised, but he wanted to know more- any insight on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes was welcome.

"Yeah," Victor grinned. "When I first introduced him to Dad, he read him like an open book. Dad was so scared of him, it was hilarious. In any case, he helped me out, and the least I could do was—"

"Pretend to be my friend," Sherlock muttered.

"Mate, no one's pretending." But Victor didn't look offended. John couldn't help the flare of jealousy that suddenly sprung up; the way Victor was speaking to him, and the way Sherlock was insulting him—like—they  _knew_ each other, and evidently more than John knew Sherlock, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He knew he couldn't dislike Victor for such a petty reason...but he really couldn't help it.

"But I see now that he's got a new friend," Victor smiled at John. "Shocking, really, I mean, this is the first time I've  _ever_ —"

"Alright, time to go," Sherlock suddenly sprang to his feet and tugged violently on John's arm to pull him up. "Come along, John."

Victor seemed unaffected by this, he just rolled his eyes and got up too, dusting the grass off his trousers.

"Nice to meet you, though, John," Victor patted John's shoulder. Sherlock was silently simmering besides him, radiating wave after wave of impatience, and as it was John was finding it difficult to formulate suitable replies with him standing so close that he could actually feel his cool breath against his neck.

"Good to see Sherlock with someone. See you around, mate." He grinned at the both of them and walked off in the other direction.

" _That_ was tedious," Sherlock muttered, and pulled John to drag him away.

"And when were you going to tell me about him?" John wanted to shout at Sherlock, but he knew that was entirely uncalled for, so he tried to keep his voice to a reasonable limit.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What is there to tell? He's a fairly unremarkable boy who insists on thanking me in this distasteful manner. I'd be much more grateful if he just left me alone."

John raised his eyebrows at the acid in Sherlock's voice. "From what I know, mate, you only hate people that much if you actually like them."

"Where on  _earth_ did you pull out  _that_ rubbish from?" he scoffed. "The  _tabloids_?"

"He seemed to know you well," John said dryly, ignoring his comment.

"Hardly. He doesn't know  _anything_ about me." Sherlock said it almost bitterly, and John felt himself thaw a little. " _Everyone_  seems to assume they know me. But honestly, John, I care very little for him, I assure you."

"Well, you should!" John snapped, causing Sherlock to look at him in alarm.

"What do you mean?" He asked, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  _Why was he reacting like this? There was nothing to be so angry about. It's not like Sherlock wasn't allowed to have friends_.

"Nothing," he muttered. "Nothing at all. I just—never mind."

Sherlock continued to frown at him, his bow-shaped mouth pouted. "Okay," he said. "But Trevor only  _thinks_ he knows something about me."

"Sherlock, even  _I_  don't know anything about you."

That made Sherlock stop. He shifted until he was right in front of John, those pale, multicoloured eyes firmly on John's. He ran a hand nervously through his thick curls. "That's not true. I don't think it's true. Is that true?" He bit his lip.

"Of course it is," John replied evenly, trying to ignore that Sherlock was just inches away from him, and those eyes...god,  _those eyes_.

"But—"

"I didn't even know you had a brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We met  _yesterday_. And I'm supposed to waste your time by telling you that I have a  _brother_?"

"What's his name?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, with ill-disguised contempt. "Please let's not talk about him. Why do you want to talk about him? Let's talk about  _me_."

John smiled at the way Sherlock was saying it, like a whiny child. "What's your favourite colour?"

Sherlock gaped at him. "My favourite  _colour_?" He made a disgusted face. "Why would you want to know that? What purpose would it serve?"

"Well—"

"Can you come over today?"

"What?" Now John gaped at him. "Where?"

"To my house, of course," Sherlock said impatiently. "You should come. You can see Mycroft, since you're so desperate to. I hope he won't be there. Then I can show you that experiment I've been conducting."

"Experiment?" John said weakly, too shocked to absorb so much information at once.

"Yes." Sherlock began to walk, obviously expecting John to follow him. "Mycroft will pick us up. I don't want him to meet you, but he's driving me up the wall in any case. But I'm warning you; you must not speak to him more than required."

"Why not?"

"Because he's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet," Sherlock said it so simply, matter of factly, like it was hardly anything. But John almost did a double take at the words.

"What? Why? Is he some kind of terrorist? A mass murderer?" It all seemed so probable. With Sherlock, his brother would only be someone equally dramatic. Maybe he carried out assassinations, John thought wildly- or perhaps he kidnapped little girls.

Sherlock made a face in John's direction. "I wish. Quite the opposite. Believe me, John, he practically  _is_ the British Government."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"Do I look like I'm joking? When you see him you'll know. Well, correct that; when you see him you'll probably want to go running off screaming in the other direction. But don't worry; he won't try anything when  _I'm_ there." He put his hand on his chest superiorly, like John was some kind of damsel in distress and Sherlock was his knight; and the idea seemed ridiculous at first, then quite endearing...

* * *

Sherlock attended exactly two and a half classes after that; Biology, where he covertly pocketed a vial of god-knows- what; 'I need it for an  _experiment_ , John, don't be tiresome," (John was constantly wondering what Sherlock  _meant_ when he said 'experiment' but he decided he would find out anyway.), English, which he only attended because John reminded him that he had promised.

The English teacher was  _extremely_ patient, John decided. Especially when Sherlock asked her, "But how can you just  _assume_ that the poet wants to kill himself? What are you teaching your students? Is all optimism lost on you?" and she had responded with, "Mr. Holmes, this is what I'm expected to teach you, please don't make me lose my job."

And last of all, Chemistry, which was the only class Sherlock found tolerable, but as usual, he corrected the teacher too many times and he was asked to leave.

So John was relieved when the last period was over and he could go to Sherlock's house. He was far too excited about it, he told himself, but he didn't care.

"There he is," Sherlock mumbled discreetly, pointing at the sleek black car parked in the driveway. "Remember what I told you. Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Try to give him one-word answers. And on  _no account_  must you give him your social security number. Although he could find that out himself, if he was so inclined. For your sake, I hope not."

"Sherlock, you make it sound like you're brother will kill me as soon as I meet him," John muttered, as they walked towards the car. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest. Was his brother a mad axeman who would chop off his head as soon he opened the door? John shuddered.

"He's not a  _psychopath_ ," Sherlock drawled. "That word is usually associated with me."

Before John could ask him what he meant by that, they had reached the car, the door opened, and a man stepped out, dressed in a sharp suit.

The first thing that passed through John's mind was  _doesn't look like Sherlock_. But when he looked at him for a few more seconds, he realised that he  _did;_ but the differences were subtle and you had to be observant. He had the same skin tone, the same piercing, pale eyes, although theirs was a more distinguished, plainer, grey; almost clinical. He was tall, although not at all as thin as Sherlock, with soft gingery hair, a pointed nose, and thin lips that were at this moment turned up in a polite smile, as he looked at John as if he were a particularly amusing pet dog.

"Mycroft, this is John." Sherlock put a hand on John's back and pushed him forward for this man to see. "John, this is Mycroft."

"Good afternoon, John," he said lightly, holding out a gloved hand for him to shake. The other hand was leaning against an umbrella.

"Oh, hello, yes, good afternoon," John bumbled, shaking his hand perhaps a bit more forcefully than required.

"I'm afraid Sherlock had been rather secretive about you, so I do hope you will forgive me if I ask you some questions on the way." He gave him that polite, but slightly condescending smile again. He reminded John of a lazy snake; coiled lightly, but quick to attack when provoked.

He gulped. "No, of course—"

"That's quite enough. Mycroft, you've come to pick me up, not to  _converse_. Stop imposing yourself on John. John, get inside."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else to his brother. "Make yourself comfortable John," he said smoothly, and got into the driver's seat, while Sherlock all but pushed John into the car.

Sherlock curled up in the corner of the seat, drawing his knees up and retreating into himself, which quite frankly, alarmed John, because he  _did not_ want to carry on a conversation with Mycroft  _alone_.

No. No way.

"So, John. I understand you have a sister."

"Y-yes sir," John stammered, quite powerless to ask him  _how the fuck he knew that_. He looked uncertainly at Sherlock, but he seemed quite unconcerned about the whole thing.  _How_ could he not be noticing how uncomfortable John was?

"You needn't be so frightened of me, John," Mycroft said, looking at him through the rear view mirror. "I have no doubt that Sherlock has been feeding you a great deal of information about me, but, contrary to his beliefs, I do not, in fact, wish you harm. So you may put yourself at ease." He said it calmly, with no hint of anger, yet John could shake off his discomfort.

"I have not been  _lying_ to John, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. "I was simply endeavouring to give him a sound background about you."

"Let me guess," Mycroft said dryly. "You told him that I was a dangerous man, practically controlled the world, et cetera, et certera."

"I said nothing of the sort," Sherlock sniffed, earning a reproachful glance from John.

"You  _did,"_ he seethed. Sherlock looked appalled that he was not participating in this charade.

"Never mind, John. In time you will learn to put up with my brother's antics." He smoothly stopped the car. "We're here."

* * *

John knew that Sherlock was posh, so he wasn't surprised to be driving into the affluent neighborhood and stopping in front of the three- story colonial, surrounded by expansive, well kept grounds and a gate of wrought iron.

"Oh, thank god," Sherlock muttered under his breath, and opened the door, springing out. He obviously expected John to follow him, so John tumbled out himself, and mumbled a hasty thank you to Mycroft, only too eager to be off.

He finally caught up with Sherlock, who had walked through the gate and was going down the path of gravel leading up to the house.

"So...that was Mycroft."

"Yes. Dreadful, isn't he? Must have been such a  _bore_ talking to him. At least  _I_ can tell him to go away. You're too polite to do it." Sherlock said it distastefully, like it was a lacking on John's part to be unable to be rude to Mycroft.

"Yeah, well, you  _did_ tell me he was...what did you say...'practically the British government.' I don't want to end up in jail."

"Oh don't be  _silly_ , John," Sherlock dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. "I don't think he can arrest a British civilian who hasn't committed a crime." He turned to John, his features suddenly alight with excitement and curiosity. "You  _haven't,_ have you?"

"No, of course not," John said, although he was fairly sure Sherlock had wanted him to say the exact opposite.

"Oh. Pity," Sherlock pulled him in.

His house was the kind of house you were afraid to walk around in; with all these antiques and expensive portraits on the walls; stiff, dull-coloured sofas that were good to look at but didn't seem very comfortable, the walls were plastered with fancy wallpaper—

"Master Holmes," someone said, and John turned around to see a thin man dressed in one of those butler's uniforms you saw on the telly, standing next to a particularly fancy-looking lamp. "Would you like some lunch?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied shortly, and started walking away, and then he stopped suddenly, causing John to almost bash into him. Then he turned around, fixing John with his piercing eyes. "Although I suppose  _you_ would be hungry," he said, like an afterthought.

John shrugged. "Maybe."

"Obviously. Get him something to eat," he told the butler. "Okay. Come."

He started walking up the carpeted stairs, and John caught his breath for a few seconds. He still couldn't quite place Sherlock, this obviously wealthy boy with the mysterious, umbrella-carrying brother, where were his parents?- and the  _butler_. Did people actually  _have_ butlers?

"His name is Rogers," Sherlock said, like he was reading his mind.

"What?"

"You're thinking about the butler, aren't you? And Mycroft. But don't think about  _him_. And my parents, of course. They're usually not home. You don't want to meet  _them_ either."

"Why not?"

They had reached the third floor, which was darker and less furnished than the other two. There was a door to the side, which Sherlock put his hand on. "A story to tell for another time, John."

Then he opened the door.

The first thing John though was  _filthy_. And it was. It was the messiest room he had ever seen. Well, even John's room was untidy, but this was...but when he took a closer look, he realised it wasn't _garbage._

There was a bed pushed into the corner of the room, unmade, like sleeping didn't matter much. The only fairly normal furniture in the room was the closet, and the desk.

"I suppose it's a bit untidy," Sherlock said nervously. "But...there's probably some space on the bed. Although you'll have to avoid the fungi—"

" _Fungi_?"

"Yes. It's poisonous, so be careful."

John gaped at him. " _Poisonous?_  You keep  _poisonous fungi_ in your  _bedroom_?"

"Yes. What's wrong with that? I'm not going to  _eat_ it." Sherlock said impatiently. "And don't tell me you're going to stand there for the rest of the day. Come  _in._ "

So John walked in after Sherlock, now inspecting the room more carefully. One wall of the room was almost completely covered with a bookshelf, crammed head to foot with dusty volumes. The room was carpeted, but it was grimy and covered with funny stains that John didn't care to dwell on. There was a framed picture of...was that the periodic table? And his desk was covered with scattered papers and more books, and  _jesus_ , petri dishes! But the most striking thing was the black and silver microscope occupying a place of honor on the desk. The windows were big, but the curtains were drawn.

"You have a microscope," John finally said, lamely.

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed. He was leaning against the wall, next to the door, watching John wearily. "I find it immensely useful."

"Your parents bought you a microscope? And they let you keep it in your bedroom?"

"My parents don't care what I keep in my bedroom. And Mycroft got it for me. When I was seven. One of the very few useful things he has done in his life."

John gaped at him again. "When you were  _seven_?" Bloody hell. He was friends with some sort of scientific prodigy.

Sherlock looked at him, a strange kind of fear in his eyes. "Yes, but it's not like..well, I wasn't very  _good_ at it, I mean, I was a fairly normal child, I can assure you—"

John waved it off. "No, Sherlock—" he stepped closer. Sherlock looked at him apprehensively. "I don't care about that. Why would I? I think you're a  _genius_."

Sherlock smiled almost shyly. It was John's favourite smile. "You do?"

"Of course. How many times do I tell you?" He smiled back.

Sherlock was about to say something in reply when the loud  _bang_ of a door could be heard, like it as just closed shut.

Sherlock turned around sharply. "Don't tell me..." he muttered.

"Wh-"

" _Sherlock!_ Are you home?" A shrill, female voice rang out, that could be heard even from below two storeys.

"Oh, for  _god's sake_ ," Sherlock hissed, his expression turning hard. "They're  _never_ home so early..."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: emotionally manipulative/weird af parents

_No no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO._

Sherlock ran both hands through his curls. This was unacceptable.  _This was unacceptable_. What should he do? What  _could_ he do? That's it. This was the end of their acquaintance. His mother was here. His mother was here and  _John_ was here, and he felt like he was in a nightmare, because this was the  _one_ situation he had wanted to avoid. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, pressing his finger tips to his temples. That's it. Go to the Mind Palace. What was the protocol for these situations?

 _Damage Control_.

Flashing red lights and an annoying siren.  _Hardly useful, I already_ know  _that the crisis level has reached DEFCON-1._   _What do I DO about it?_ How could he rectify the situation? Introduce John? No. Hide John in the closet? Not a bad idea.

Suddenly Sherlock felt a slight pressure on his shoulder and he snapped his eyes open. John was squeezing his shoulder, his eyes concerned. John's hands were warm.

"Sherlock," he said, calmly. His voice (and more importantly, his touch) instantly brought the rapid wheels running in Sherlock's head to an abrupt end. "Who is it?"

Sherlock felt his lip curl in spite of himself. "Someone who we should be avoiding at all costs," He seethed, breaking away from John's grasp to look out the door.

"Are you going to tell me who it is?" John asked.

Sherlock considered the possibility. He might be able to pretend that she was his housekeeper for a few minutes, unless she decided to come up. But then again, John wasn't an idiot...and he didn't want to lie to him.

"Sherlock," John insisted, his mouth a hard, straight line, and a little frown marring his brow. Sherlock sighed. What was the  _point_? Potential friends should know everything about each other. Wait...had he said friend?

"Sherlock?" John repeated, raising an eyebrow. The tone of John's voice was not one to broach argument. Or stubbornness.

"She's my..." Sherlock licked his lips. "Mother."

" _Mother_?" John stared at him.

"In a manner of speaking," he shrugged.

"But—"

"Sherlock! Come downstairs! I have to speak to you about something!"

Sherlock took a deep breath, readying himself for the inevitable. John didn't deserve to be in the presence of his mother, but he was hoping that John's wonderful nature would prevail in this case. That he wouldn't decide that Sherlock was a freak after all and leave him.

"Come along, John," he said, dejectedly. "Come along and meet my  _mother_."

Sherlock was leading the way, so when he went downstairs, his mother was standing next to the sofas, arms crossed over her chest as her foot tapped impatiently. She was about to open her mouth to say something to him, when her eyes suddenly fell upon John and her mouth snapped shut. She stared for a few seconds, eyes rapidly shifting from Sherlock to John to Sherlock.

He watched her impassively, wondering what was going through her head as she registered that he was not, in fact, alone. Finally, her basic politeness kicked in and she smiled widely. It was a fake smile, of course, Sherlock knew it quite well; but a smile, nevertheless. And he was glad; John deserved to have people smile at him.

"Hello," she said. "Sherlock, who is this?"

"Afternoon, Mrs. Holmes," John said politely, stepping forward. Sherlock's lip curled in disgust. Now John was being  _nice_. He was always far too  _nice_. He had no idea how he was standing this obvious character defect for so long.

His mother seemed to be surprised that anyone Sherlock brought home would be actually aware of basic etiquette, and she shook his hand. "Afternoon, dear. Who exactly—"

"I'm John, John Watson. A friend of Sherlock's from school." John smiled again. One of those winning smiles that made the slightest crinkle in the corner of his blue eyes—

" _Friend_?" His mother's eyebrows shot up in surprise as her eyes widened. Then she laughed; a horrible, trilling sound that was as fake as her smile. "Are you sure your family hasn't committed a murder or something of that sort? Sherlock does love his little mysteries, don't you dear?" Then she looked at Sherlock; her grey eyes searching his face. Sherlock gave nothing away, he looked back at her; although his mind was rapidly cataloging her reactions, his heart thrumming against his chest like a frantic bird. He wanted this entire exchange to be over as soon as possible, it was difficult enough to hold on to John, but if his mother said more than required, John might be disgusted and run away.

"Murder?" John frowned. "Erm...not that I know of. What exactly do you mean?"

"Oh nothing, nothing," she waved him off dismissively. "it's just that this is the first time Sherlock has ever brought a friend home. He doesn't have friends, my son." She smiled again, as if the fact that Sherlock was friendless was something of great amusement.

"So I'm told," John said wryly. "Fortunately he has me." Sherlock's heart did an odd leap at that comment.

"Well, that's lovely, I suppose," she said, with another slight giggle. "Although I hope you won't be disappointed if he loses interest in you due to your inability to stomach his rather morbid fascinations. Always a delight, Sherlock." She shot him a glance, as if daring him to say anything different. Sherlock wished that the floor could open up and swallow him whole, the damning words tumbling out of her mouth were pulling him further and further away from John.

"I'm sure he won't, Mrs. Holmes," John said brightly, although his eyes wore a steely glint. "Sherlock's been a lot of fun, actually."

"Lovely," she purred. "I came to speak to Sherlock, but since he's busy...we'll talk later."

"Oh no, please, go ahead, I'll just step away—"

"No, it's alright. I had better get off to work. I'll be late, Sherlock." With that, she walked out of the living room and out the door.

* * *

It was taking all of John's effort not to be rude to Sherlock's mother. What on earth did that woman think of herself? Talking about her own  _son_ like that! He breathed heavily as she finally left.

Suddenly, many things fell into place. Suddenly Sherlock didn't seem like such an oddity. With parents like that, who  _wouldn't_ dislike all of humanity?

He turned around to Sherlock, and met his blue-grey gaze. He said nothing, simply looked at John, an unfathomable expression on his face.  _Nervousness? Anger? What?_ He hated to see Sherlock like that. Sherlock was  _always_ so sure of himself, so confident and graceful in his movements. Now he looked fearful.

"Your mother is an absolute delight," John finally muttered.

Sherlock cracked a smile at that, but it didn't reach his eyes. He looked paler that he had before, and John noticed the very slight tremble in his fingers.

"Sherlock," he said, softly this time, moving closer to him, until he was just a few inches away. "I respect your mother and all that. But you do know that I don't believe anything she said?"  
Sherlock frowned at him, as if John was speaking in some foreign language. "You don't?" he asked, quietly.

"Of course not," John snorted.

"That's...good." he plucked some imaginary lint on his trousers.

"Yes, it is. Very good. Now come on, let's get back to your room."

* * *

When Sherlock led him back to his bedroom, John noticed some things he hadn't noticed before; one was the very large display board on one of the walls, pinned with numerous pictures, newspaper cut outs, and maps. There were coloured tacks on them, either pinpointing locations or holding them into place. Strings connected one location to another. It made absolutely no sense to John.

Walking through the mess of god-knows-what on the floor, he stood in front of it. "Okay. What is this?" he asked.

"It would take ages for me to explain." Sherlock stood next to him.

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock," John rolled his eyes.

"Where on earth did you get  _that_ idea?" Sherlock said vaguely.

"Arse. Come on, tell me. I want to know."

Sherlock looked at him, then, biting his lip nervously. "Alright," he finally said. "It's just...just a display board."

"Displaying what, exactly?"

Then Sherlock shot him a devilish grin. "Murders."

"Murders?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Yes. The police force is full of fools. I've solved at least three of them, and I haven't even left my room. I've tried to speak to them, but they always throw me out."

"You've  _solved_ them?" John gaped at him.

"Yes. Do keep up, John," Sherlock said impatiently. "I get bored. I get  _so_ bored. And the newspaper, although alarming in its ability to publish utter nonsense,  _does_ talk about the occasional murder. Serial, if I'm lucky."

"Serial murders," John laughed nervously. "So you want to be a police officer, huh?'

Sherlock scrunched his nose in disgust. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to be a consulting detective," he said grandly.

John smiled at that. "A consulting what?"

"Detective. Why do you insist on repetitions? I detest repetitions."

"What's a consulting detective?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always- they will consult me. I'll be their highest court of appeal."

"Ambitious."

"Hardly," Sherlock snorted. "They'll be running after me all day."

"I'm sure they will," John said indulgently. Sherlock was becoming more and more mysterious with everything he said. It was oddly appropriate, what he wanted to be. Then he noticed a strange yellowish-white thing on top of the glass cupboard.

"Sherlock. Is that a  _skull_?"

"Oh," Sherlock's mouth made a perfect  _o_ as his eyes fell upon the self same skull. "Yeah, friend of mine. Well, I say friend." Sherlock looked completely nonplussed about the absurdity of keeping that morbidly grinning abomination in his own bedroom.  
"Okay," was all John managed to say.

The other thing he noticed was a violin-shaped case propped up against a glass cupboard.

"Sherlock, is that a violin?" John asked, stepping forward.

"Oh. Yes. I'm very good at it." John was learning to recognize the subtle arrogance in Sherlock's voice. Far from finding it annoying, he found it alarmingly adorable.

"Really? Could you play for me?" John sat down on the edge of his bed, looking at him expectantly.

Sherlock look appalled. "You want to hear me play?" He nervously fingered his tie.

"Yeah. Isn't that what I just said?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, bending down gracefully and picking up the case from the corner. "It's just..it's the first time somebody has asked me to play."

Then he sat next to him on the bed, close enough for their legs to be touching. John didn't want to move. Sherlock placed the violin on his lap, deftly unclasping it.

"Why not?" John seemed to be unable to tear his eyes away from the long, slender fingers removing the violin reverently and running themselves along the polished wood.

"Quite possibly because I abhor playing for people," he replied, whilst tuning the instrument, those pale fingers delicately turning the knobs. John noticed the thin scars and puncture holes on those pale forearms, and he wanted to say something, to  _ask_. But he didn't want to scare Sherlock off. He closed off so easily.  _In time,_  he thought.

"I want to hear you play." He said instead.

"So you said." Sherlock stood up, placing the violin under his chin, and placing the bow lightly on the strings. "What do you want me to play?" he licked his lips. John involuntarily licked his own.

"Something nice," he said, quite unable to say anything more specific, because the mere sight of Sherlock looking all elegant and Shakespearean with the violin under his chin was distracting.

"I'm playing for  _you,_  John. Of course I'll play something nice. I wanted to play your favourite. Since you're being thoroughly un co-operative I will have to exercise my own supreme powers of deduction and play what I hope you will like. I  _detest_ conjecture, John, but I'll make an exception for you." John had lost the trail of conversation after,  _I'm playing for you, John._

"I think the occasion calls for Bach. Have you heard Bach?"

"Not much," John said honestly.

"Good. I'll play that for you then. This is oddly..romantic. Sentimental. Don't play many of those."

 _Romantic? Sentimental? Was Sherlock playing something_ romantic  _for him?_

But then the bow began to move across the strings, and John stopped thinking. A haunting, beautiful melody filled the room. John watched, enraptured, as Sherlock swayed in tune to his own music, those elegant, pale fingers plucking the strings as the other hand directed the bow back and forth across the strings, creating the most wonderful music he had ever heard. Sherlock closed his eyes, his long lashes fanning across his cheeks, and his lips parted slightly, as he concentrated. He looked so perfect, like he belonged right here, in that messy room with the late afternoon sunlight piercing through the blue curtains, so he stood in a pool of yellowish light that threw his sharp features (especially his cheekbones) into further prominence, his wrists and fingers and hands moving dexterously across the instrument, playing, plucking,  _creating_.

Finally, the music stopped, and Sherlock removed the violin, and stood in front of John, watching him nervously. It took John a few seconds to register the absence of the music, a few more to realise that his mouth was hanging open, and a few more to be able to gather himself and formulate a hasty reply for the nervous Sherlock in front of him.

"That was  _amazing,"_ he said fervently.

Sherlock immediately perked up. "You liked it?" he sat down again on the bed next to him, putting the violin back.

"Of course I did. I never knew you played so well."

Sherlock smiled his shy smile again. "I don't play when I know someone's listening."

"You played for me."

"Yes, John. Because you asked me to and I can't say no to you," he said, annoyed. "Why do you insist on being slow?"

Again, John only registered  _I can't say no to you_.

Ugh. Why was he acting like such a...a...poof?  _Get a grip on yourself, Watson. You are so not gay_.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Then someone's phone beeped. Sherlock's features suddenly became alight with excitement. He dived across the bed, almost lying across John in his haste to grip his phone.

"Er. Sherlock. Are you—"

"It's Billy!" he said rapturously, still lying across the sheets on his stomach. He pressed some buttons on his phone, read the message, and stood up just as suddenly. And gracefully.  _Gah_.

"Billy?" Okay. John was lost now. "Who the hell is Billy?"

" _Billy_ , John. He's...I don't know. Billy Wiggums. Drug addict, as far as I know," he shoved the phone into his pocket. "Come on. Up you get."

"A  _drug addict_?" John got up automatically, responding to the childish glee in Sherlock's voice, although he was still completely at sea as to what was going on. "Where are we going?' A  _drug addict_?

"There's been a  _murder_ , John! It's the fourth one this week!" He was already past the door. John ran after him, down the stairs, torn between being amused at the clear exhalation on Sherlock's face and utter confusion as to why a murder was making him so darn happy.

"Erm..Sherlock...could you please explain?" Sherlock stood reluctantly in the living room, looking at John, appalled at his inability to grasp the gravity of the situation.

"A murder, John! Four murders! And a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

"Christmas," John said weakly. "Still not getting it, Sherlock."

"Oh, John, don't you  _see?_ " He suddenly gripped his shoulders, his eyes wide in his buoyancy. "We're going to solve this one!"

"Oh," John pursed his lips, rounding his eyes. "We're going to solve a murder. We're sixteen and we're going to solve a murder. A serial murder."  _Sherlock's touch was warm. And nice._

"Yes, John. Although your ability to state the obvious is an enviable one, it's of no use right now. Come on! We're wasting time! The game is on, John!" Sherlock literally jumped out the door.

John just thought,  _Oh, what the hell_. He was about to leave when the butler ran to him with a plate with two sandwiches on it.

"Sir, your—"

"Yeah, thanks," John said quickly, grabbing one and running out.

Sherlock was impatiently waiting for him at the gate, and John sprinted across the path to him.

"Aren't you going to change?" John asked, stuffing the sandwich in his mouth hungrily. Both of them were still wearing their uniforms. "You should eat something. Eat something first."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be boring. Come on. We have a crime scene to deduce!"

He started walking quickly down the path, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Okay. Where are we going?" John asked, deciding that he was going to have to devise a method of getting Sherlock to eat.

"Lauriston gardens. A woman's been murdered and she scribbled some sort of note before she died."

"Billy told you?"

"Yes."

"Will you be allowed there?"

"Obviously not, John. But that's hardly an obstacle."

"Of course it isn't."

When they reached the main road, all Sherlock had to do was raise his arm and a cab stopped right in front of them. John had no idea why he found that so...attractive?  _No. Not gay. NOT gay._

Sherlock opened the door and shoved John into the cab, then settled in the corner of the seat, drawing his knees up to his chin, thrumming with excitement.

John realised that he would have to tell the cabbie where to go.

"Lauriston gardens," he informed him.

Then the cab started to move, and John could literally  _feel_ the wheels turning in Sherlock's head.

"So I assume you've solved the murder already?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, his blue-grey eyes confused. "What?"

"You know. You said you solved those murders without getting out of your room. Why can't you do it now?"

"Circumstances were  _different_ , John. It's a capital mistake to make premature evaluations."

"So..."

"So we wait." Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, and that was clearly the end of the conversation.

* * *

The building was milling with police personnel. Yellow tape barricaded the crime scene, with several police cars emblazed with  _Scotland Yard_ were parked in the driveway. Sherlock dragged him to the side of a building on the other side.

"Sherlock. How the  _hell_ are you going to get to the body?"

"I know this place. There's a backdoor on the other side. I'll only need five minutes. Come  _on_  John. Don't you like this?"

John rolled his eyes. But, truth be told, of course he was liking it. It probably wasn't very decent of him, but still...

"Oh, who cares about decent," Sherlock muttered, dragging them out of that dark alley and pulling them along the road.

"How the—"

"You're biting your lip, and your hands are shoved in your pockets. Your nervous, and your face has 'guilty' written all over it. You're not happy that the woman is  _dead_ , John. You're happy because we are going to solve the case. There. See? It's very decent."

John nodded blindly, trying to ignore Sherlock's grip on his bicep and the fact that he had noticed that he was biting his lips. He shrugged off his hand and asked, "Where are we going?"

"To the backdoor of the building, John. Keep up." Sherlock put his hands in his pocket and when they reached a turn in the road, he kept walking; the picture of nonchalance. It was darker on that side, and only one or two officers were around. They had reached the other side of the building.

"Sherlock, are we just going to enter a crime scene? You do realise it's illegal?"

"We're going to enter a crime scene and we will not be arrested. Things are always best hid in plain sight, John. Where would you hide a tree? In the forest." John had no idea what Sherlock was babbling about, but he had just moved smoothly towards the building, lifted the tape, and walked right in.

"Sherlock, what are you—"

But before he could finish the sentence, they were interrupted by a burly officer who stepped up to them assertively. "And who are you, son?"

"William, officer. William, and this is my friend Jonathan. Just comin' home from school. Not a problem, I hope? Mum's awfully worried. What with the murder an' all. Was too afraid to come from the front, all those scary—"

"Alright, alright," the officer held up his hand. "Move along. Hurry home."

"Yessir," Sherlock said, and walked in. John followed him weakly, too shocked by the sudden change in Sherlock's accent to change anything.

"How did you—"

"Billy taught me. Now come on."

The back door was open, and the small, harshly lit lobby was mostly empty. A narrow stair case ran up the side. Sherlock ran up with surprising energy as always, John following him closely. When they reached the landing, Sherlock began walking down the right corridor.

"Sherlock, where—"

"Shh," Sherlock held a slender finger to his lips. "Look."

The corridor was empty except for two policemen, who were talking to someone with their backs turned. The person was far too engrossed in what the two were saying. It took five seconds for Sherlock to pull him into a room on the side.

"We have about five minutes before they come back in," he whispered, and went to his knees next to the body on the floor. She was a woman, probably mid thirties, dressed in pink, lying on her front.

John almost gagged, but then he was suddenly hit with the realisation  _that they were in a fucking crime scene and they had no way to get out of there what was this lunatic thinking_?

"Sherlock-" he started, but he also realised that Sherlock was too far gone to listen to a word. He had poking and prodding the body quickly and firmly, his eyes inspecting every inch of the body with a bloody magnifying glass-  _where the hell had that come from_?

"John, look at this," he said, calling him. John walked over, trying not to step on anything he wasn't supposed to. Sherlock pointed at the word  _Rache_ scraped into the wood right next to the woman's hand.

"Rache? Rachel?" John asked.

"Obviously." Then he grinned. "This is fantastic!"

"Sherlock..."

"What? Come here. What do  _you_ think of it?"

"Try and remember that's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

As if on record, five minutes later, two officers walked in, dressed in body suits. One of them uttered a cry of outrage on seeing the two teenagers in the room.

"Who the hell are these kids? Get out!"

Sherlock stood up immediately, looking at the both of them with polite interest. "Good evening. Sorry, we were just about to leave."

"Damn well you were!" the other one said. Tall, with cropped brown hair, streaked liberally with grey, a long-ish face. He didn't sound particularly angry when he said that, just exasperated.

"Sorry, we live here, my friend just wanted to—" John stared babbling, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him along. The two officers went inside the room, resuming their investigation. John was only too glad to get out of the room, but just at the door, Sherlock turned around, leaned against the door, and said, "Oh, by the way, the woman is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes, probably media, judging from the alarming shade of pink. She's come from Cardiff, intending to stay in London from one night, judging from the size of her suitcase. Suitcase, yes, of course, she has a string of lovers, and none of them knew she was married. Oh yes, she's been having an affair. Numerous ones."

Both of them stared at him. John wanted to grab him and run away, because it was a  _really_ bad idea to show off to Scotland Yard, especially the showing off that was so particularly Sherlock. Although even he was shocked at how Sherlock could deduce that much in hardly five minutes.

Sherlock looked extremely pleased with himself. "Thought I'd speed you on your way."

The one who had yelled at Sherlock first just fumed. "Get out of here, you little upstart."

Sherlock shrugged and turned around.

"No, wait," that was the other officer. Sherlock turned around, eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"Lestrade, you can't be serious—"

"How do you know she's from Cardiff? Having an affair? The suitcase? How do you know that?"

"Elementary. Her coat is wet from rain, but there hasn't been rain for a while in London. The underside of her collar is wet too, so she's turned it up against the wind. Strong wind- she has an umbrella with her which is dry, so too windy to use it. Far, judging from the size of her suitcase, but not very far because her coat hasn't dried yet. She hasn't travelled for more than a few hours. So where in that radius has it rained with strong wind? Easy." He picked his phone out of his pocket and showed it around. "Cardiff."

"The affair?"

"Look at her jewelry. The rest of it is clean, but not her ring. The inside is cleaner than the outside, so it's been regularly removed. Look at that alarming nail polish- she obviously doesn't work with her hands, so why remove the ring? Affair. String of lovers likely."

"The suitcase?"

"The mud tracks on her  _heels_ , inspector. Honestly, what is it  _like_ in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

"Sherlock!" John seethed, but the inspector was too shocked to notice. He looked at John as if to ask,  _is this kid for real_? John simply shrugged.

"Yes, that was all very clever, but we would've gotten that much easily, kid—" but the brown-haired inspector waved him off.

"That was smart," he said. "What else can you tell us?"

Sherlock was trying very hard to act uninterested, but John could feel the self-satisfaction radiating off of him in waves. "That message," he pointed to the  _Rache_ scratched on the wood. "Does she know anyone named Rachel?"

" _Rachel,"_ the other officer laughed harshly. "The killer isn't that stupid, kid. Rache is the German word for revenge, so she was obviously—"

"Writing an angry note in German?" Sherlock prompted. "Of course. She's spend the last few seconds of her life scribbling  _revenge_ into the floor. If I were you, I'd find out who Rachel was."

The inspector looked impressed. He held out his hand for Sherlock. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. We could use someone like you in the force. Maybe once you're older you could join. But as for now, you should-"

Sherlock snorted. "Oh  _please_. Scotland Yard? How tedious. Now tell me, where is the suitcase?"

Lestrade's hand fell. "Suitcase?"

"Yes, suitcase!" Sherlock said impatiently, pacing the room. "She obviously had a suitcase, so where is it? Did she eat it?"

Both the inspectors frowned at each other. "There was no suitcase."

"Maybe she left it in the hotel?" John suggested hopefully.

"No no," Sherlock waved him off dismissively. "Look at her hair, a woman this colour co ordinated—" Then Sherlock made a great 'oh!' of amazement and gripped John by his shoulders. "That's it, John! _Pink!"_

"Pink?" John repeated.

"Pink?" the inspectors echoed.

"Yes, pink!" then he looked around and noticed the bewilderment on everyone's faces. "Oh look at you lot," he drawled. "You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so  _relaxing_."

"Sherlock," John said again warningly, and he pouted at him. Then he said to Lestrade, "Inspector, don't you  _see!_ Her case! It's pink!"

"Pink? Okay, so it's pink. How does that help?"

"She must have left it in the car when the killer drove her here...a bag that particular shade...would attract a great deal of attention, don't you think? The first thing the killer would do would be to get rid of it at the first opportunity."

"So where could we find it?"

"It can't be far," Sherlock said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "Has to be within a 2 or 3 mile radius...anywhere you could dispose of it easily. Come on, John! John, don't stare, it's such a waste of time, come  _on_!"

And before either DI Lestrade, or the other officer, or even John, could even say a word, Sherlock grabbed his arm and dragged him down the corridor.

"Wait!" the inspector called after him. "You're very clever and everything, but this is dangerous! Leave this matter to the police, kids!"

"I'm clever and you can't tell me what to do!" Sherlock called gaily after them, and soon they were out of the crime scene, running down the road, the sky now almost dark.

Sherlock and John stopped once they were outside, leaning against the wall of the opposite building, John panting and half his body weight leaning against the door, and Sherlock panting but positively bouncing with excitement.

"John! Why are you  _waiting_?" Sherlock asked him, appalled. "Come  _on!"_

"Give me a minute, Sherlock. Let me...catch my...breath."

"Catching your breath?  _Boring_. We have a murder to solve."

"Sherlock, this is is a serial killer we're talking about—"

"I know," Sherlock said gleefully. "Isn't it  _wonderful_?"

* * *

John could think of a dozen different ways to spend a Wednesday night, one of which was finishing his homework. What he had not expected, in his whole life, was that he would be spending the self-same Wednesday night rummaging through a garbage dump with Sherlock. Not that he was particularly scared of this murderer, in fact he couldn't deny the adrenaline rushing through his veins...but he did  _not_ expect being friends with Sherlock to entail  _this_. Not that he was complaining.

"Sherlock, this is the fourth one we've tried—"

"John, you're being tiresome." Sherlock's muffled voice came from the depths of the dump.

"Get out of there, you—"

"Aha!" Sherlock cried victoriously, and held up a medium-sized, bright pink case in his hands.

John's eyes widened.

"Is that—"

"The victim's suitcase, yes," Sherlock jumped out of the pile of garbage bags, holding the bag aloft and them dropping it on the floor. "I  _told_ you. Told those idiots. That's the problem, John. No one believes me."

John couldn't help himself from grinning. "So what do we do now?"

Sherlock shot him a manic grin. "Now? Why, we catch the killer, of course."

* * *

There were many things that Mycroft detested. He detested people in general. He was not too fond of animals. He considered any kind of denim apparel to be frightfully degrading. And he  _hated_ conversations.

But what he detested most of all were conversations with his  _parents_.

Mycroft did not hate his parents, of course- and he was sure Sherlock did not either. He was above such petty behaviour. But even he knew that his parents were less than stellar, and they did not know how to handle Sherlock. And in the end, they would use him as a means through which they could question Sherlock's activities and air their doubts as to whether his little brother would amount to anything at all.

"Mycroft, what do you make of this...this  _boy_ that Sherlock brought home today?" his mother asked, putting down the novel she was reading to look at Mycroft as he sat down on the armchair next to the fire.

"Which boy?" his father asked sharply. "He brought home a boy? Joyce, you did not tell me."

"Didn't I? You were not at home, dear. I have absolutely no idea who he was. He was from school, I think."

How  _tedious_. "Did Sherlock happen to mention a name?" Although Mycroft knew exactly who she was talking about. He had dropped both of them off himself.

"Yes, I suppose he did. Something with J, I think."

"John Watson. He's a friend from school, I gather."

"Sherlock does not have friends," his father said stiffly.

"Although I agree with you, father, recent circumstances fail to validate that statement."

"What are you saying? Are you saying our son has finally got himself a friend? It must be for some experiment, I suppose."

"No, actually," Mycroft said, trying to hold on to his temper. He didn't lose it easily, but this conversation was trying his patience. "It doesn't have such a...phlegmatic origin."

"But, Mycroft, be reasonable—"

"I am being very reasonable. In any case, mother, it is a capital mistake to make premature evaluations, don't you think? Perhaps we should simply hold our tongues on the matter."

"Should we ask him about it? We should ask him. He's never been a very good liar," his father looked pleased with himself after coming to this conclusion.

"Hardly. Sherlock could lie through his teeth if he wanted. But, to answer your question, father, leave him alone. He's probably sleeping." Mycroft knew very well that Sherlock was not at home. All he could hope for was that John would keep an eye on him and prevent him jumping headfirst into danger, which was his usual instinct. John was easy to read, and it was a simple enough deduction that he was enamoured with his brother. Hopefully that would mean he would keep him safe. Far be it for Mycroft to stop his brother from 'solving a case'. Besides, Anthea would keep him informed. Two hours ago they had been to Laurister Gardens.

His mother sniffed haughtily. "I do not approve of this relationship. We don't even know who this boy is."

"This is the first friendship that Sherlock has cultivated, mother. I think it would be in his best interests for us to leave it at that."

"But, dear—"

"Do you think that I would allow John Watson to remain in my brother's life if I was convinced that he was a less that benevolent influence? You think too lowly of me, mother."

"But Mycroft—" his father started.

"I will keep the both of them under observation. The moment I am convinced that John is  _not_ exerting a positive effect on my brother, he will be removed immediately. Now will you please give the matter a rest?"

* * *

It had been a long time since Sherlock was this tired.

He trudged into his house at half past midnight, (the back door was remarkably easy to pick, they should get better security) still in his grimy uniform, and tumbled into his bed.

 _No needles tonight,_ he thought.  _No nicotine_. His success was providing an altogether better high. This was the most fantastic case he had got in  _months_. And he had solved it in a  _day_.

But, there was something else as well that was giving his mind that particular exhalation, and it was of a rather unconventional type.

 _John_.

Sherlock couldn't believe that he had been with the same person the whole day and not once had he gotten bored, or irritated, or annoyed. Not once had he thought of slinking away so that he could solve it himself.

John was the most wonderful person he had ever met. Sherlock could come to no other conclusion. John had  _enjoyed_ being with him. He hadn't thought him weird, or called him a psycho, and then there was that  _face_ he would make when Sherlock had something particularly clever. Like he was  _awed_ , not irritated. How could such a person exist? Surely someone who wouldn't tire of Sherlock so easily was a mythical creature.

He remembered how that cab driver had almost made him take those pills. He would have too, he thought. It was entirely possible. And then John came hurtling out of nowhere, tackling him to the ground, shouting at Sherlock, saying something along the lines of, "You complete wanker!" he had had been pretty good with the ropes too. And then he had been frightfully dull and had called the police in advance.

"I  _knew_ you were going to find him," John had said. "I was worried about what you would  _do_ once you did that."

John had guts. John was brave. Well, obviously. Someone who willingly spent so much time with Sherlock of all people would have to possess a certain degree of bravery.

Sherlock suddenly felt a twinge of regret when he had told John yesterday that he didn't have friends. This was the highest idiocy on his part. John Watson had offered to be his  _friend_. Since when had _anyone_ done that? Since when had Sherlock actually  _wanted_ to be friends with someone?

It was something that had never happened before. What was so special about John, really? Sherlock tried to bring out that little box in his Mind Palace that had the list. It was a calming room (because John had a strange way of calming) ..full of sunshine and wooden floors. It reminded him of John. But when he recalled the points on the list they seemed so... _inadequate_. Surely there were not just four reasons why Sherlock should be friends with John.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and sent John a text.

_John._

_What I said that day. About not having friends. It's not true._

_I only have one._

_Good night._

_(it's you.)_


	7. Chapter 7

Days passed. Weeks passed. It had been almost a month since John had come to this school, a month since..well...a month since Sherlock.

Sherlock was great, no doubt about that. Oh, but there were days. There were days when John would have liked nothing better than to throttle him.

Usually it was the days when Sherlock was  _bored_.

John dreaded those days. Sometimes the boredom frightened him, because even though the scars had faded from his forearm, John had a few theories why he did it. He was convinced now that they were a thing of the past, but still. It frightened him. They came often enough, but not often enough that he couldn't handle them.

John was always trying to think of new ways to keep Sherlock  _thinking,_ to keep him  _doing_ but nothing was ever good enough for that bloke.

Like, the week before. John prided himself on the fact that he hadn't murdered him that day. He wondered idly if Sherlock would come back from the dead just to solve his own murder.

* * *

_It had been one of those lazy afternoons, when Sherlock's parents weren't home (bless them) and Mycroft was out, doing whatever shadowy work he did with his umbrella (bless him very much) and John was stretched out on Sherlock's messy bed, in his messy room, with messy-haired Sherlock bent over his microscope, examining whatever rubbish he had nicked from the woods outside school._

_Although he wasn't completely sure where he had gotten it. Safer for his sanity not to ask._

_John was reading one of his numerous crime novels. It was surprising how many he had really, and John rather enjoyed the days when Sherlock would take one down and read out the first few pages in his deep, rumbling baritone, after which he would throw it away, denounce it 'boring' and tell him who the murderer was, all in the space of five minutes. Sometimes he would solve it by the end of the first page. On the days he was feeling particularly boastful, the first paragraph was all he needed._

_John's eyes were growing heavy as he lay there, reading...the words seemed to drift on the yellowed pages. And the sun was just filtering through those blue curtains; the slightest breeze ruffling his hair, might as well close his eyes, nothing was happening—_

_"Oh, for god's sake!"_

_John's eyes snapped open. He immediately sat up, turning around to see Sherlock standing up now, running his hands through his dark hair, his lips a hard, straight line._

_"Sherlock," John muttered tiredly. "What is it?"_

_"John, how can you just lay there on that bed?" he demanded accusingly, waving his arms in his direction._

_John put the book back on the shelf. Here we go again¸ he thought. "What am I supposed to do? You're experimenting on some rodent brains or whatever—"_

_"Why would I be experimenting on rodent brains?"_

_"The point being, you great big lump—that nothing important is happening and I'm sleepy. Hence I was sleeping. Go on. Defy my logic."_

_"John. Stop this at once. I disapprove of this. You can't lay there and do nothing while I'm experimenting on rodent brains because I have—."_

_"But you just said –!"_

_—" nothing to do."_

_"No," John said determinedly, holding up a finger. "No, Sherlock don't say it."_

_"But John, I'm—"_

_"NO, Sherlock—"_

_"Bored! So bored!" Sherlock proclaimed loudly, and began to pace the room, ranting at the top of his lungs._

_"No murder for a month, John! What sort of a country do we live in? Quiet, John! It's quiet. Can't you see how distasteful it is? What am I expected to do? What can—"_

_John decided he didn't need to hear it. He flopped back against the pillows, closing his eyes. It was an art that took patience to master, but if you knew the method, you could drown out the sound of Sherlock's voice..._

_"...And Mycroft is making things difficult for me, as usual. One would think that one's brother would honour the relationship—I am no fan of sentiment, as you know, John, but—" He stopped momentarily. "John? John! Are you sleeping again? Have you not been listening to me?" He went over to the bed and shook his shoulder. "You are a dreadful friend, John. Number 5 in How to Make Friends is 'be a good listener.' And you're sleeping. It must be so nice being able to turn your brain off like that—"_

_"Sherlock!" John shouted. "Shut up!"_

_"But—"_

_"No! That's it. Shut up." He put his finger on Sherlock's lips. "Not. A. Word."_

_Sherlock didn't say anything, which wasn't very surprising, because John's finger was pinned against his lips. Which...was distracting._

_He brought it down. Sherlock looked at him, his pale eyes wide._

_"John, I think you are overreacting."_

_"Me? I'm overreacting? You're the one having a hissy fit because you have nothing better to do than dissect dead rats!"_

_"I was not dissecting them—"_

_"That is not the point! Sherlock, you can't expect someone to get murdered every other day just for your amusement!"_

_"But people do get murdered every day, John, it's statistics, someone may be getting murdered right this very moment!"_

_"You just helped Musgrave with the family property two bloody days ago!"_

_"Family property!" Sherlock began pacing the room once more, with his nose tragically up in air. "Yes, John, two days! Two days of utter boredom! That was hardly taxing, I need something, John! Dear god, John, can't you see? My brain will stagnate at this rate!"_

_"Sherlock stop acting like a raving lunatic and calm down!"_

_"Calm down? How on earth do you expect me to calm down? I'm bored, John! Hardly the state of affairs during which one would be expected to remain calm!"_

_John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Count to ten. Don't punch him. Don't punch him. What can we do to get him to shut up? Come on, Watson. Think._

_John opened his eyes. "Where are the games?"_

_Sherlock stopped and stared at John like he had gone mad. Which, in his defence, wasn't too far off. "What games?"_

_"The games! The games you said you used to play with Mycroft—"_

_"Why are you bringing up my brother? If you think this is a topic that would calm me down—"_

_"It's here somewhere, I've seen it," John jumped off the bed and began to crawl on the rug, looking underneath the bed and underneath the table, and in the dirtiest corners of Sherlock's room—under the glass cabinet where that horrid skull leered at him—_

_"John, it is your sanity I fear for now, I strongly advise you to get off the floor."_

_"Aha!" John held the longish cardboard box aloft. "I've found it!" He got up from the floor, dropping it on the bed. "Sit."_

_Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Cluedo? I've never played it. I don't play games. Especially not with Mycroft. And definitely not with you."_

_"Sherlock," John said, menacingly. "SIT."_

_~Twenty minutes later~_

_"No. Nope. No way. I am not playing this anymore." John rolled off the bed onto the carpet._

_Sherlock stared at him, appalled, the manic gleam in his eyes unwavering. "John, don't be boring! Why are you being boring?"_

_"Because the victim can't have done it, you idiot!"_

_Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, please, John, even you would be able to say it's the only possible solution."_

_"It's not in the rules, Sherlock!"_

_"Well then the rules are wrong!"_

_"Oh obviously!" John stood up. "Everyone's wrong expect you, aren't they?"_

_"Well, in this case, yes—"_

_John stomped out of the room and didn't return for an hour. Sherlock hadn't been able to find him anywhere in the house._

* * *

Or the week before that. That had been an absolute disaster.

* * *

_"Sherlock, where are we going?" School had just gotten over, and Sherlock had impatiently dragged John outside, away from the very normal conversation he was having with Mike. He didn't have many of those. But Sherlock was insistent._

_"To the library!" he replied gleefully, picking up pace with those absurdly long legs of his._

_John rolled his eyes. "There is a library in the school, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock looked at him as if he had offended him greatly by uttering such nonsense. "You expect me to go to the school library for research? How degrading, John!"_

_"What research?"_

_"Research of the highest importance. Come."_

_The library was a good one, although John hardly ever frequented it. When they walked inside, Sherlock had immediately run off into the depths of the room, and John had resigned himself to the fact that he was about to spend two hours of absolute boredom during which Sherlock would flitter from shelf to shelf, complaining about said library's inadequacies. Just a regular day._

_The check out desk was empty, and there were very few people in the library. John leaned against the desk, thinking it better not to get involved with Sherlock at this moment. Although Sherlock had probably assumed John was behind him, which explained his muttering of, "John, this is absolutely distasteful. I can find nothing here!"_

_But thinking people might think Sherlock crazy because he was talking to himself, he followed him, into the Q-T section of the library. He was cursing under his breath, running his fingers down volume after volume, removing books, flipping through the pages aggressively, and shoving them back into any place._

_"Sherlock—"_

_"John, how am I to carry out my experiment at this rate?!"_

_"Sherlock—"_

_"Um, may I help you?" Sherlock had barely registered the voice, but John looked behind him to see a slender, pale girl nervously biting her lip and staring at Sherlock. She was about the same age as them, with dark red hair, wearing a pink jumper and jeans._

_John shoved Sherlock. "She's asking you something."_

_"I haven't got time for trifles. Tell her to go away."_

_"Sherlock!" John looked apologetically at the girl. "I'm sorry. He's an idiot. I don't think he needs any help, thanks."_

_"Oh, that's alright. He's always going about like that," the girl stepped into the corridor and smiled at John. "He also usually ends up needing help, so I'll just wait here. He'll forget he said no and ask me all the same."_

_She was sort of pretty, John though. Sherlock was being his usual annoying self, so he might as well strike a conversation._

_"So you know him?"_

_"Oh, yes, he comes here quite often. I work here part time. I'm Molly, by the way. Molly Hooper." She looked expectantly at Sherlock, but he was still looking._

_"John, John Watson." He stretched out his hand, and she shook it, but she kept on looking furtively at Sherlock. She was blushing. Oh dear God, he thought. Please don't tell me._

_"Are you a friend of his? He always comes alone."_

_"Oh, yeah. I've been told that. Yes, we're friends."_

_"Would the two of you stop flirting with each other and be quiet?" He looked accusingly at Molly. "Isn't this supposed to be a library? A rubbish excuse for it, yes, but a library all the same. Don't you have those horrendous posters everywhere? 'Maintain silence at all times' or something of the sort?"_

_Molly blushed a deep scarlet. "Yes, of course, I'm sorry."_

_"Stop being rude, you cock." John snapped._

_"Rude? Hardly. She's being highly inconsiderate." He turned to Molly. "Miranda. I need a book on the solar system. Go get it for me."_

_John gaped at him. Okay, he was really going to punch him this time. "Sherlock, her name is—"_

_"No, it's alright," Molly quickly said. "Yes, of course, I'll get one for you. It's not here, but there's another—"_

_"Why are you talking so much? Aren't you supposed to help people find books?"_

_"Yes, yes," She blushed again and left._

_"Sherlock, what was all that about?" John smacked the back of his head._

_"Ow!" Sherlock looked affronted. "What was that for?"_

_"Why were you being so mean to her? And her name is Molly, for god's sake, don't you come here often?"_

_"How is her name important to me? She's an assistant, she brings me books, our relationship doesn't warrant the use of each other's names."_

_"Maybe not, but it's called being polite, you insensitive berk."_

_"Polite? What a waste of time. Why would I do that?"_

_"Because I'm telling you to."_

_"But John—"_

_"Apologise to her when she comes back."_

_"What? John, I—"_

_"I said apologise, you twat." John crossed his arms and looked determinedly at him._

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."_

_"And how could you not have noticed that she likes you?"_

_"Likes me? How on earth did you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock looked at him as though he had never met anyone more idiotic._

_"No one would stand your sunny personality unless they were genuinely attracted to you."_

_"Well, I don't care, and I'm sure she's aware that the feelings are not mutual."_

_"Oh, trust me, mate, I can see that. Would it hurt to not be an arse?"_

_"I am not an arse. You told me to apologise, I'll apologise."_

_"Good."_

_Molly came back then, panting, but smiling nervously. "Here," she said breathlessly, handing the book to Sherlock. "Sorry it took so long. I just—"_

_"Molly. That's your name isn't it?" Sherlock looked expectantly at her._

_"Yes," Molly replied, surprised._

_"Good. John had brought to my attention that you are currently romantically attracted to me. I feel it is—"_

_Molly's jaw dropped. "What?" she shrieked. She looked at John. "What?" she repeated. "No! No, no, no, I just...it's not—but I—"_

_John gaped at Sherlock. "You fool, that's not what I—"_

_"I feel," Sherlock continued, more insistently. "That it is my duty to inform you that this sort of thing is really not my area, so save yourself the trouble." Then he smiled widely, and said, "Thank you for the book."_

_Molly was still in a state of shock. John smacked his palm against his face, and the sight of John's despair seemed to remind Sherlock of something._

_"Oh, yes of course. Oh, and I'm..er...sorry."_

_Molly seemed to gain some of her composure. "For what?"_

_Now Sherlock looked uncertain. "I'm...not entirely sure. John informed me that I must, so I.."_

_"Okay!" John said loudly. "You've got your book! You've said sorry! Our work here is done. Come on, Sherlock!" Then he grabbed Sherlock's bicep and dragged him out, the dark haired boy still extremely confused with the situation._

_"John, I do not—"_

_"Shut it, Sherlock, or so help me, I will shut you up myself."_

_Sherlock did not speak._

* * *

John smiled at the memory. Then he smiled at Sherlock, whose attention was currently fixed on whatever shnapp he had plopped under the microscope.

They were in the chemistry lab right now; they had a free period, but it was raining outside so they couldn't go to the woods as usual. In fear of Sherlock declaring that he was 'bored' again, John had had the bright idea of suggesting he find something to do in the Chemistry lab.

" _Really John, you are excelling yourself today," he had said approvingly. "It may be that you are yourself not luminous but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing any real genius have the remarkable ability to—"_

" _I've got to confess, Sherlock, for a moment there I actually thought you were complimenting me."_

" _I_ was  _complimenting you," he replied primly._

He was looking at the bottles of chemicals in the glass cabinet, amusing himself by guessing them all while Sherlock worked quietly behind him, when two boys walked in.

John looked up, Sherlock took no notice. He recognized them both, but knew only one of them well enough to say hello.

"Hello, Victor. What are you doing here?" he smiled at him. He didn't like him very much, particularly, (and he didn't know why) but he always tried to be nice.  _Unlike some people I know_ , he thought wryly.

"What's up, John?" Victor smiled back at him, pulling out a stool and sitting down. "This is Henry, Henry Baskerville."

"Cheers, mate," John said, shaking his hand. He knew little about Henry except that he was rich; he lived in the Baskerville Estate in the country, and he was a year older than them. Henry returned his greeting.

"I'm not even going to try to greet Holmes, he looks busy," Victor joked.

John scoffed. "He's not busy, he's just occupying himself. If I leave him with nothing to do, he'll turn into a raving lunatic, complaining about how bored he is."

"I am conducting an experiment of the highest importance," Sherlock said defensively. "And your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think."

"Sherlock," John said warningly. "What have I said about being nice?"

"Your ceaseless gossip is making it difficult to think please thank you."

John rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he turned his attention back to the two boys. "What's up?"

"I'm having a party this weekend," Henry said. "Thought I'd invite the two of you."

John looked at them, surprised. They wanted to invite  _them_? They wanted to invite  _Sherlock_?

"I know what you're thinking mate, but honestly, I haven't got a problem with you  _or_ Holmes, and I doubt anyone else does. Well, maybe  _him_. Sometimes." He poked a thumb at Sherlock.

John bristled immediately. "They just don't know him," he said.

"Yeah, I know. No offense mate," Henry held up his hands in surrender. "So, can you come? I know he won't go without you, and vice versa."

"Yeah, I don't see why not." John grinned. He hardly ever spoke to anyone else, except the boys on the rugby team. But he had noticed that no one had been mean or rude to him the last month. Well except Anderson and Donnavan. But they didn't count. So maybe that was a good sign?

"Excellent," They both shook hands with him again and left.

John sat next to Sherlock and said, "Well, how about that, huh?"

Sherlock looked up from his microscope, one dark eyebrow raised. "A  _party_?"

"Yes, a party, Sherlock. They invited us, and it's not nice to say no. Not to their faces, at least."

"Boring. We're not going."

"Yes, we are."

"No, we're not."

"Sherlock!" John said exasperated. "Come on. You don't have any friends beside me, it'd do you good to socialize with other people."

" _Socialize?_ With  _people_? John, do you not know me at all?"

"I know you better than anyone else, which is why I'm telling you that you have to come."

"But  _John_ ," he whined. "It's going to be tedious."

"Tedious or not, we should go. If you go and talk to other people, they'll realise you're not as much of a tosser as you think."

Sherlock frowned. "Why do you care what other people think of me?"

Sherlock had a knack of saying things that made John want to smack him upside the head and embrace him at the same time. But usually the urge to smack him was stronger.

"Because you're my friend, Sherlock, and I don't like it when other people think ill of you."

"Other people are boring. Why do their opinions matter?"

"Let's talk about the party. We are going. It'll be fun."

"No, it will not," Sherlock said disdainfully. "There will be  _people,_ and they will be drunk, because that's exactly what these parties entail. The alcohol won't even be  _good,_  despite how posh Baskerville is. It will be a night of drunken debauchery and terrible music, with dreadful games like Twister and Spin the Bottle, people will try to deduce who likes who- and I promise you, their deductions will be off- and who's been shagging who—that's easy enough, a fool could tell you that, and you will get nothing from it except a headache and perhaps a stolen wallet."

John sighed. Well, there was only way to convince him.

He leaned forward. "Did you know that my uncle is a doctor?"

"I was aware that a close male relative was in the medical field, yes. Elementary."

"Yes, you're clever, of course you did. If you come with me to the party, I'll convince him to let you into the morgue and you can take home a body part to experiment on."

Sherlock immediately sat straighter. " _Any_ body part?'

"As long as your request is reasonable."

"But  _any_ body part?"

"Yes." John smirked. "Do we have a deal?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I didn't know you were capable of bribery."

"Aren't I full of surprises?" John grinned.

* * *

Sherlock did not like this  _AT ALL._

The music was too loud; the lyrics were hideous with barely-concealed sexual innuendos, the food was pathetic, the games more so, and he was growing tired of watching people grind against each other as if they were trying to make a fire.

Henry's house was nice enough, and big enough, and his parents were out of town. Everything was easily deducable, and while that had kept him occupied for a while, the music was preventing him from thinking clearly.

Then there were the  _girl_ s.

What part of,  _Not My Area_ did they not understand? There were at least three of them who asked him to dance with them. One of them was a serial adulterer, one had three cats (definitely not) and one was bisexual- and while Sherlock didn't care about anyone's sexuality, even a fool could tell that she was trying to make the redhead at the punch table jealous. And one girl specifically- Janine, her name was—who kept coming. When he declined her offer three times, she had giggled and said, "Oh, I get it. You're gay! I could get a boy for you, if you like."

John had burst out laughing at that. It had been worth it to see him laugh, but really, the constant offers were getting out of hand.

But John looked like he was having fun, and far be it for Sherlock to curtail that fun.

 _Keep it together_ , he told himself.  _This is for John. And the promise of the body part. Make sure he doesn't forget. Remind him if he forgets. Keep on reminding him until he takes you there_.

Someone had shoved a can of beer in his hand, and Sherlock had scoffed and thrown it away.  _Beer_.  _Honestly? This is the highlight of the party? What a waste._

"Sherlock," John shouted in his ear over the music. The hair at the back of Sherlock's neck stood up at the proximity. "Go dance with Janine."

"What?" Sherlock looked at him appalled. "I am not here to dance!"

"At least  _try_ to have fun. Go on! You'll like it." John's hair was dishevelled, and his eyes were bright. Sherlock had a crazy, irrational urge to fix his hair into place.

"Did you know that Henry's father is a smuggler?"

"What?" John laughed. "Sherlock, you're here to enjoy yourself, not deduce. Go dance with Janine. She really likes you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Of course_ John would say that. "I'm aware, she made her carnal intent crystal clear. But John, she's a  _giggler_. You know I detest  _gigglers._ "

"Rubbish. She's pretty and clever. Go."

Before Sherlock could reply, someone walked up to the both of them. Girl, brunette, their age, in their year- he knew her. The same girl he had seen talking to John that day he had rushed home without him. She was a good enough student, she had an affinity for biology like John, but not better that John, her mother was a beautician and her father was in some sort of business- as far as he could tell—

"Sherlock!" John was shaking his shoulder. He looked at him.

"I'm going to dance with Sarah. I'm sending Janine."

"But, John—"

But Sarah had dragged him away.

Sherlock didn't like it. He didn't like Sarah, she wasn't good enough for John.  _Well, then, who_ was  _good enough for him_? Now he had nothing to do. Obviously. What had he expected? He could hardly expect John to stay with him the whole time, people liked John- it was a tedious quality, in fact—so of course they would want John to hang out with them as well. Sherlock didn't have a  _claim_ over John, not more than anyone else. He knew all this. It was all very logical and all very rational, which was supposed to be comforting. Logic calmed him down. Why wasn't it working now? Why did the logic seem lopsided all of a sudden?

"Hey, you," Janine playfully pushed his shoulder. Sherlock stiffened. Now she was touching him. Why was she touching him? He did not want to be touched. Not now.

He looked at her. She fluttered her eyelashes and flipped her hair. She stank of alcohol and she was  _definitely_ not wearing anything under that dress. Dear God. John expected him to dance with  _her_?

"Hello, Janine," he answered evenly. He didn't want to be rude. He had promised John that he would maintain a modicum of politeness today. But obviously, there would be a reasonable limit. If she started  _touching_ him again...

"Your little pet's dancing with Sarah. You look all blue standing here alone. Care to dance with me?"

"John is not my pet, he is my friend. And no, I would not. Please go away." He handed her the can of beer. "Here, drink this and get drunk."

Janine laughed. "It must be a pleasure being friends with you, Sherlock Holmes." She drank the beer. "Mmm. Is this yours?"

"Yes."

"Dance with me."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Come on. Look at John, he's dancing. You should too." And Sherlock did look, he saw John dancing with Sarah, and he looked like he was having fun, and he was spinning her around and laughing, and—

"Very well. Come on."

Janine grinned. "Oh, aren't you a darling," she drawled, and grabbed his arm, pulling him into the middle of the room. Sherlock decided not to upbraid her for this; they couldn't dance without touching. He  _did_ hope, however, that she would retain herself from rubbing against him, he didn't mind dancing, obviously, it had been a while since he had—but the grinding was  _not_ acceptable.

She smiled, hooking her arms behind his neck, and Sherlock gingerly placed his hands on her hips. Well, this was definitely no waltz. He would have to make do.

"You know how to dance!" she said excitedly, as they moved.

"Yes I do," he said. "Watch." He pulled away from her, holding on to her, spun her around, dipped her so low her hair swept the floor, and pulled her back up, against his chest.

"Whew," she breathed, blowing her hair off her face. "You're good."

They continued the dancing. "I know."

She pressed herself closer, which wasn't entirely welcome, but he didn't say anything. "So tell me. Are you really gay?"

"I erm..I don't really identify myself as anything," he answered honestly. Although he didn't see the point of discussing his sexuality.

"Oh, still finding your way, are you? Understandable." They twirled around some more.

Sherlock made a noncommittal nose as he spun her around. She seemed to like that.

"I always thought—well most of the school thinks—you and John, you know."

"John is not gay."

"Obviously, seeing from the way he's getting it on with Sarah."

"What?" Sherlock frowned at her. His grip slackened a bit, but he fixed it.  _Sloppy dancing_ , he chided himself.

"Well—oooh—" she exclaimed. "Looks like's having fun," She gestured to somewhere behind them.

"What are you talking about?" Nevertheless, he spun them around smoothly to see what she was gesturing to.

The last time he had seen John, he had been dancing with Sarah. Which wasn't pleasant, but understandable. Now John was still dancing, but they were dancing closer now, and...kissing.

Sherlock stopped dancing.

"Sher—" Janine started to say.

"I have to go," he said, his voice shaking a little.

"But—"

He pushed her away and moved the throng of dancers, only one thought in his mind:  _I must get out of here_.

He was being illogical. Again. He knew that John would have wanted to go home together, Sherlock would have dropped him off at the station, or Mycroft would come and pick them up, but—but—there John was, with his lips on Sarah's, dancing like—like—

 _Why does it bother you so much_?

Sentiment always bothers me.

 _Your friendship with John says otherwise_.

Indeed. Why  _did_ it bother him? It shouldn't. John was free to do whatever he wanted with whoever he wanted, to  _do_ whoever he wanted, and Sherlock was a fool if he thought no one would want to kiss John. It wasn't like  _he_ wanted to kiss John, how ridiculous. It wasn't as if he was—was— _jealous_. No, of course not. That was a degree of sentiment he was not capable of. He was fond of John, of course, but that certainly didn't mean he would be jealous of Sarah, who was dancing with John, who was holding him like that, kissing him like that—

No. The very idea was ludicrous.

He was at the door, about to leave, when someone grabbed his shoulder.

"Sherlock, where're you going?"

He turned around to John, who was panting, and whose cheeks were pink from dancing and lips red from kissing.

"I'm going home," he said brusquely.

"Wait, what? Sherlock, we agreed—"

"I've kept my side of the agreement, John. I've been here for two hours, which in my opinion is more than enough. This party is dull and Janine is dull, and I am leaving."

"But I thought—"

"Well, you thought  _wrong_ , didn't you?"

Sherlock immediately knew from John's face that he had said too much.  _You idiot_ , he chastised himself, but the damage was done.

"John, I'm—" he started, in a pathetic attempt to fix it.

"No," John held up a finger. "Don't say you're sorry. You're right. I just thought that you would had fun here, and you would suck it up long enough for me to have fun. I would never have come here without you, you know that, and I'm always with you when you need to go to the sodding library, or you're 'bored', if you have a mad urge to investigate the murder in the next town, but—"

"How the hell am I supposed to have fun when you're snogging Sarah?" Sherlock suddenly shouted.

He immediately regretted it. He was not supposed to say anything that would upset John. He was not supposed to upset John, full stop. This was possibly the worst thing he could do. Then why had he said it?

"What has Sarah got to do with anything?" John demanded.

"Nothing," Sherlock said, quickly, moving towards the door. "Forget I said it."

"No," John held his shoulder to hold him back. "Do you not like Sarah?"

"I  _detest_ Sarah. How could you not have picked up on that?"

"Not all of us are bloody geniuses, you twat!" Sherlock flinched at the tone of his voice. John had shouted at him many times, but John had never been quite so angry. The situation was going further and further from his control. Why couldn't he just stay shut? Now John was mad, and if he—if he—no. He mustn't think like that. John wouldn't leave him over something as silly as this.

Or would he?

"John, I must leave."

"Look, I know she's rude, and I've told her that she needs to be nice to you if she wants to talk to me at all, and she understands that—"

"John." Sherlock bent down so he could look John in the eyes. "It doesn't matter. Go. Dance with her. Victor will take you home, I've told him. Goodbye."

"Sherlock-!"

"Bye."

* * *

Sherlock stood impatiently outside the massive iron gates, half hoping John would come after him. But he didn't. He drew his coat closer around him, turning up the collar; it was cold. December was on its way.

 _Don't be mad, John_ , he thought. But he wondered if  _he_ was mad with him. It would be irrational. And he hated lack of reason. And for a stupid reason as that.

He angrily tapped a number on his phone.

"Hello, brother mine," Mycroft drawled. "Having a good time?"

"What do you  _think_?" Sherlock spat. "It's a party. With people and alcohol. What kind of a time do you  _think_ I'm having?"

"You sound upset. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Why did you call?"

"Come and pick me up."

"So soon? I told mummy you would be home by eleven."

"Mycroft, stop being tedious and asking me questions. Just come and pick me up."

"Is John with you?"

"No."

Pause on the other side for a few moments. "It's a girl, isn't it?"

"Mycroft..."

"Obviously. You cannot possibly imagine that your friendship with John Watson makes him unavailable to the other sex, Sherlock."

"I'm perfectly aware of that!" he snapped. "Come and pick me up."

"I warned you not to get involved."

" _I'm not involved_. .UP."

"I'm ten minutes away. Try not to set anything aflame until I'm there."

* * *

The ride home had been tedious.

Sherlock's parents were seated in the living room when he walked in, which he was not ready for.

 _Please don't talk to me_ , he prayed.

"Sherlock, why are you home so soon?"

"Weren't you supposed to come home by eleven?"

"He didn't have fun, of course not, we warned him not to go."

"Where's John? He must have left him behind."

"I  _told_ Mycroft that their friendship was not compatible."

"Would the both of you  _shut up_?" Sherlock screamed at them.  _Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper. Be calm. Go to your room._

His parent raised their eyebrows. "Sherlock, dear, it isn't  _our_ fault you didn't enjoy yourself. We  _know_ it's hardly somewhere you would fit in. That's why we told you not to go, we understand you better than you understand yourself." His father said.

"John should have brought you home, shouldn't he have? What do you think, Joyce? I can understand why he didn't  _want_ to, of course—"

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock muttered, and left.

He trudged upstairs, opened his room, and began searching.

 _Where was it? Where the hell had he kept them_?

He ransacked his room, reduced it to shambles; he checked the books on the shelf, flipped through their pages, checked underneath the mattress, underneath the bed, under the rugs, underneath the skull, scattered the carefully laid notes on his desk and rummaged through the drawers; he pushed his fingers under the photos on the display board, took off the display board and looked behind it, everywhere, everywhere until... _aah._

His fingers trembled as he held the little box.

There had been days when he would get so  _bored_ and  _depressed_ that he couldn't go to sleep without it, couldn't go a day without it. He saw no reason in stopping.

Until John.

John had suddenly come into his life, without any warning; a variable dropped into a perfectly balanced equation, and nothing seemed to make sense anymore. The perfect rules that Sherlock guided his life upon, were ceaselessly bent and distorted and now he had to see everything in a different light.

And the experience was...not unpleasant.

The blinding need that would consume him, the desire that gripped his soul and his brain like a vice, to end the insanity inside his head, had suddenly vanished. He didn't need to, not anymore. Every day with John seemed like a new challenge, a puzzle for him to solve, his brain was always, always occupied, interested. John never bored him.

But today the need sparked inside him again; today was a bad day. Sherlock never did them for a stupid reason, it was only on those dark, depressing days when he would be so bored, that he would be in need of a fix. But never...never for something as... _sentimental_  as this. No, never.

He plunged in the needle.

_Bliss._

The world seemed to fade from focus, everything seemed to slow down, and with a sigh of relief he fell against the rug, the syringe rolling from his palm.

It was short while later (or a long while, Sherlock had no idea) that someone knocked on his door.

_Mycroft._

He didn't even wait for an answer, casually strode in.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on the— _oh."_

"Go away," Sherlock muttered, turning away from the door and curling up into a tight ball as if to save himself from a physical attack.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft's tone was despairing, something he didn't hear often. He heard the door click shut behind him, and footsteps come closer. He felt him bend down next to him, pick something up and throw it in the bin.

"Get up."

"No. Go away."

"Sherlock, explain. Please."

He sat up then, leaning against the bookshelf as he did so. He felt so  _horrible_. Wasn't it supposed to feel good?

"What was it this time, hmm?" Mycroft's grey eyes were tinged with anger and worry. The frown lines on his forehead made him seem much older than he was. "Cocaine or heroin?"

"It was cocaine, I haven't any of the other," Sherlock's lips twitched upwards.

Mycroft sighed tiredly, and sat down next to him. "Why, Sherlock?" he simply asked, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on Mycroft's bare feet, the hem of the blue pyjamas he was wearing.  _Good question_ , he thought.  _Why indeed_?

"You're too stupid to understand," he decided on saying. It sounded petulant and foolish, but then, this was  _Mycroft_. Hardly someone who deserved a mature response from him.

He could feel him roll his eyes. "If you keep going, you know I will send you to rehab."

Sherlock turned sharply to face him. "You wouldn't dare."

"You know I would, Sherlock. You know that when I decide to do something I do it. Unless you explain this behaviour to me, I will send you off tomorrow itself."

Sherlock groaned, carding his fingers in his hair. He tugged mercilessly, hoping that the pain would help him to think. "It's ridiculous."

"I thought so. I don't want to have this discussion with you when you're high, although perhaps this is the best time to speak to you. Go on."

"It's just, that...oh, for God's sake, Mycroft. Why do I care so much? Is there something wrong with me?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, his eyes weary. "It's John, isn't it?"

His name felt like a slap on his face. What point was there of hiding it from Mycroft? Bugger that he was, he would realise anyway.

He nodded.

Mycroft sighed; a long, tired sigh that was perhaps far more telling than any words would be. He leaned his head back against the bookshelf, and for some odd reason, the presence of his brother beside him,  _listening_...was strangely comforting.

"All lives end, brother dear. All hearts are broken. Haven't I told you? Caring is not an advantage."

"And I know that. Which is why it's so shocking that I seem to be disregarding that golden rule entirely. It's worked well enough for me in the past."

"Sherlock, although I have never denied the truth of that statement, I would never dream of imposing it on you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I  _never_ understand what you're saying. You're terrible at explaining yourself. You're terrible at most things."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "What I'm saying, Sherlock, is this...I have always entertained the possibility of you... _disregarding_ that rule. It's such a you thing to do."

"How the hell is it a me thing to do?"

"Because you never follow rules. Since when have you followed rules?"

Sherlock shrugged, but couldn't deny the truth of the statement.

"You see, Sherlock...when you allow yourself to feel, it makes you..." He paused for a moment. "Susceptible to pain. And hurt. And loss. I've always been in favour of avoiding those particular emotions, and I've been successful so far. Recent circumstances claim that you, however, have not."

"Mycroft, if this is some other lecture about what a  _disappointment_ I've been—"

"I do not think you are a disappointment, Sherlock. I think the very fact that you're lying here impossibly high is a tribute to the fact that you've realised the true use of emotions after all. That, I feel, is a better success that listing 243 kinds of tobacco."

"What are you  _saying_? Where are you sprouting all this rubbish from? And the tobacco list was useful."

"I'm sure it was," Mycroft got up smoothly. "What I am saying, Sherlock, is this; caring is not an advantage, but that doesn't stop anyone from caring. And it shouldn't stop you either." He waved a hand about vaguely. "I hope this is the last time you do this."

Mycroft walked out then, and Sherlock lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, his brother's words swirling around and around in his head;  _Caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage, caring is not an advantage ..._ until they unknowingly lulled him to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke up that morning with a throbbing pain in his head, which was kind of pathetic, because he didn't even drink anything last night.

He pressed his fingers against his temples, wondering why he was feeling so horrible. He felt...incomplete, somehow. As if he had forgotten to do something terribly important. He lay on his back for several minutes, staring at the ceiling until he remembered.

The events of last night swept past him, in blinding Technicolor, and just like that,  _Sherlock._

Guilt. Raw, undiluted guilt washed over him like a fucking wave and John needed to sit up to quell the overwhelming roll of nausea that went along with it. He wanted to be mad, he really wanted to be angry at Sherlock for just leaving like that, but he  _couldn't_. Because he was Sherlock's friend, god damn it, he was the one who was supposed to  _get_ him.

The party was a stupid idea. Stupid, ridiculous, god-awful insane. To think that Sherlock would enjoy himself there, with all those people around him...it was laughable. Why the hell would he drag him along to what would be, quite plainly, torture for him? John should have been glad that Sherlock found him the most tolerable specimen of the human race, he should have just  _left it at that_.

_How am I supposed to have fun when you're snogging Sarah?_

Why would he say that? Surely he wasn't...jealous? But the very idea seemed mad. Sherlock wouldn't feel  _jealous_. John didn't want him to jealous...did he?

John wanted to see him desperately, so they could talk and make amends and everything could go back to normal again. His friendship with Sherlock had become such a regular, immovable part of his life that the need to fix things was almost an aching longing inside of him. They had fought before, but John had never seen Sherlock so pissed off. Should he be the first one to apologise? Should he make the first move?

John groaned. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes was like navigating a minefield. You had to re think every single step.

* * *

He was halfway through his breakfast when he heard his phone ringing in his bedroom. He left his half finished breakfast and ran up the stairs.

"Hello?"

"Are you finished with your breakfast?" Mycroft's voice was cool, crisp; cutting into the phone like ice.

"Er..." John stammered, feeling a bit taken aback. "Not quite. Why exactly have you called?"

"I wish to speak to you. My car is outside. Get dressed and come."

"Wait, I—"

"I am not in the habit of repeating instructions, John. Get dressed and get in the car."

"Um...okay."

_It sounds like he's kidnapping me_ , John thought. Was he going to take him away to some far-away location and murder him? It seemed exactly the kind of crazy thing he would do...maybe stab him with his umbrella. But then, if he wanted to kill him, he wouldn't do it himself, he clearly wasn't the kind of man to get his hands dirty.

So John shovelled down the rest of his breakfast, (they were good pancakes, he was definitely not wasting them) dressed hurriedly in a jumper and jeans, told his mother he was going to Sherlock's.

" _John, why don't you bring him over one day? I still haven't met him!_

" _I will, mum! Bye. Love you!"_

He went outside, where the familiar black car was parked in the driveway.

_Back seat or front seat_?

He opened the back door and climbed into the plush leather seats, feeling very awkward and un-coordinated.

Mycroft smiled politely at him and didn't start speaking until he began to drive.

"I am taking you to our house. I feel that you and Sherlock need to communicate."

_Strange choice of words_. "We  _do_ communicate."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, that's actually quite convenient. I was thinking of going anyway."

"Admirable. Before we reach, however, I want to talk to you about something."

"Okay." Unease pricked the back of John's neck. He had never been alone with Mycroft, he suddenly wished that Sherlock was here. Well, technically, he always wished for Sherlock's presence. He didn't know exactly what that said about him.

"What is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock?"

John stared at him for a few moments, first in shock, and then in anger. "I thought you were aware that we were friends. That being said, I don't see how it's any of your business."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him from the rearview mirror. "You're not very afraid of me, are you?"

"I would be if you were frightening," John could feel his temper rising.  _Guess arrogance runs in the family_.

He smiled at that. "Friends," he said, like he was testing the word. "Yes, you are, aren't you? Very well. I will be satisfied with answer for now. Now tell me what happened last night."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm going to speak about that to Sherlock anyway. I don't think I need to tell you."

"John, I worry about him  _constantly_. I want to hear it from you."

"Look, it's really silly. I can't even make sense of it myself. When I speak to Sherlock, he'll tell you."

"Fine," Mycroft said, quietly. "But whatever it was, it affected him very strongly. He has been moping since yesterday and has been increasingly impossible to handle. He is becoming unreasonably fixated on you, my brother. I don't know what I would do if this..." he waved his hand about vaguely, " _Friendship_  of yours were to end."

John frowned, and a sick feeling settle in the hollow of his stomach. He was close to puking out the pancakes. "W-what do you mean... _moping_? Is he okay?"

Mycroft's pale grey eyes looked at him from the mirror, the eyes that were so like Sherlock's in their inability to miss anything. There was a slight twinge of pity in them. "Understand, John, that Sherlock is not used to these bouts of  _emotion_. Which is why he is more prone to...getting hurt."

"Hurt? He's hurt? I hurt him? What are you talking about?" John flinched at the rising panic in his voice.

"While your concern is admirable, it is misplaced. You see, John, Sherlock may have this petty hatred for me, but believe it or not, I  _do_ care about my brother. And through the years I have removed any negative influences in his life. I do not want you to be...what must be removed."

"Removed?  _Removed_? Nobody is  _removing_ me. Sherlock can make his own decisions," John snapped. "You can't decide his friends for him. And I don't know what delusional world you're living in Mycroft, but I would  _never_ hurt Sherlock. He's as important to me as he is to you, but your brother is a headstrong, arrogant  _arse_ so of course we'll have disagreements. But I've known him long enough and I know how to handle him. I want him to be happy, he makes me happy, and sometimes I do the same for him. I know you do this from love, but our friendship isn't an  _experiment."_

"John—"

They had already reached Sherlock's house, so John got out, not wanting to hear the rest of the line. He did however, lean into the driver's seat window and say, "I'm unreasonably fixated on him too, no worries. I don't plan on leaving him as long as he wants to be my friend. So."

Then he left, feeling a grim satisfaction at leaving him staring open mouthed like that.

He opened the gates, jogging up the familiar path of gravel, to knock loudly on the door.

The butler opened the door, smiling politely in recognition of John

"Cheers, Mr. Rogers. Is Sherlock home?" he stepped inside.

"Yes, sir, he's upstairs, I think he's asleep."

"Excellent."

He knocked on the door twice, to which the familiar rumble of Sherlock's voice answered from inside, "Go away."

_Ah, Sherlock_ , he though endearingly. John opened the door.

Sherlock was curled up on the floor under a bed sheet, only the mop of thick dark curls visible from under the covers.

"Morning, Sherlock."

He immediately sprang up, with a loud exclamation of "John!" and leaped out of the corners.  
"Jesus, Sherlock!" John complained, turning away, horribly aware of the burning heat on his cheeks. "Put on some bloody clothes!"

"Clothes?" he repeated, completely unconcerned by the fact that he was just wearing a pair of red boxers.

John rolled his eyes, trying to banish the image of Sherlock half naked from his mind, the image of that lean, hard torso, and the prominent collarbone, the angular bones just under the waistline, and the thin line of hair that disappeared under his red boxers...

_Snap out of it you fool. What is wrong with you_?

"It's winter, you twit, put on something warm," John told him again.

"John, you can  _look_  at me. I am not  _naked_."

_Didn't seem very far from it, though,_ thought John, and forced himself to look at him again, all pale, angular features and lanky, elegant limbs.

"I don't recall taking off my clothes last night," he mused, rummaging in his closet. "Must have removed them at some point. " He pulled a grey t-shirt over his head, saying, "I like to sleep without restrictions." He pulled out a pair of black pyjamas and pulled them on as well.

"Oh, you do, do you?" John was alarmed with his shriller than usual voice.

"There. Is this decent enough for you?" Sherlock asked, sitting on the bed.

John seemed to notice his face for the first time now; his skin was paler than usual, and with his usual tone, it was almost white. His hair was dishevelled and messy, exactly what he had thought Sherlock would look like when he woke up (not he thought about that, obviously), his lips cracked and shadows under his eyes.

"You look ill," he said, and there it was again, that god forsaken  _guilt_ bubbling up inside him again.

"I am not ill," he rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"How long did you sleep last night?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know I can manage on little sleep, John. I'm fine."

John nodded, deciding not to argue. He went and sat next to Sherlock, on the foot of the bed; so close that he could breathe in his familiar scent; he hadn't showered last night, probably, the cologne he had used last night still clung to him, and there was the slight smell of sweat and exhaustion, mingling with the comforting fragrance of sleep.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John shook himself out of his wayward thoughts again. He looked at Sherlock again, now, and noticed his multi-coloured, pale eyes, searching every inch of his voice, ceaselessly deducing, guessing, cataloguing. He never seemed to stop.

"I think we should talk about last night," He finally said, sounding uncertain, weary, which was a new for Sherlock, whose confidence constantly crossed the line into arrogance. "It's the thing to do, isn't it?"

"I suppose." John replied. Sherlock looked completely out of his depth, which tugged at John's heart a little. He always felt like that when Sherlock was confused, or uncertain, because his regular state of being was being sure of  _everything_. Sherlock  _not_ knowing was so rare, and so out of place, that John was always longing to end it and put him at ease again.

"John, I want to say, that..." he licked his lips, his fingers unconsciously moving to his wrist to fiddle with his cuffs, but they just brushed against the bare skin there. "I think I should, at least...you know..."

"Sherlock," John said evenly, touching his chin and forcing him to look into his eyes. The gesture didn't seem odd. His eyes looked back, looking grey in the wintry sunlight streaming from the window. "Don't. It's my fault. I'm sorry. Really."

"No, no, no," Sherlock rapidly shook his head, getting up. "No, you see, I planned this. I was to say, I'm sorry, and you would reply with 'it's okay' and we'd be friends again."

John gaped at him. "We never...we never stopped being  _friends_ , Sherlock. We would never... _never_ —that's not—how can you think that?"

Sherlock bit his lip nervously, carding a hand through his hair. "I'm...glad to hear that. Yesterday was...yesterday I acted rashly. I just...it's stupid. It won't happen again."

"No," John said determinedly, standing up, and coming close to Sherlock. Close enough to touch him. He placed a hand gently on his shoulder, and looked up at him, into those what-colour- _is-_ that eyes. He could feel the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his T-shirt, and he wondered if the rest of him was as flushed. He licked his lips. "No, no way. Sherlock. I shouldn't have forced you. You don't know anyone there...and I was dancing with Sarah, and I left you alone...and...god, it was a disaster, wasn't it?" He laughed a bit.

Sherlock's lips quirked up in a slight smile. John could have jumped for joy. Sherlock smiling was truly a sight to behold. "That's an adequate description of last night, yes."

John sat down on the bed. He breathed heavily. "Definitely not doing it again."

"No, never," he agreed. "Let's take our minds off it." He crossed his arms over his chest. "I have a plan."

"A plan?"

"Yes, a plan. I have decided that today we will do something that you would like to do."

John frowned at him. "Where is all this coming from?"

"John, you're so  _slow_ sometimes," he said impatiently. "Yesterday you told me that you always went along with me when I went to the...'sodding library'-" he air quoted the words- 'and for murders and the like. So, I—"

"Sherlock, I was angry. It doesn't matter—"

"John, don't interrupt, it's very impolite. So, since you always come along with me, today we will do something  _you_ find fun." He smiled then, wait, no, it was more of a grin- a wolfish grin with too much teeth that stretched his face unnaturally. He looked extremely pleased with himself.

John felt warm inside, all of a sudden, a warm, fuzzy feeling in the very pit of his stomach. Sherlock was actually doing something  _nice_ for him.

"You're being nice."

Sherlock looked offended. "Of course I'm being nice. You're my best friend."

John gaped at him. "I'm—what."

"My best friend," Sherlock said impatiently. "Do keep up, John."

"I'm your best friend?"

"Why are you asking me that when I've already answered you?"

John grinned. "You're my best friend too."

Sherlock smiled shyly. Bloody hell, his face looked so... _lovely_ when he smiled like that. "I'm glad to hear it. Now, what do you want to do today?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock, you do realise that I  _enjoy_  all that? Not as much as you do, obviously, I don't jump for joy when I hear the word 'murder' but I like it. I like doing it with you. I wouldn't be friends with  _you_ if I didn't."

"I know," Sherlock said, almost fondly. "That's why you're my best friend. But we'll do something  _normal_ today. What do you want to do?"

"We could sleep and watch crap telly." The thought of lazing around all day with Sherlock sounded absolutely  _delicious_ to John.

"Dear God, is this your idea of 'fun'? I thought people like you did things like...go to the pub. Or spend money to watch useless, plot-less movies."

"People like me? Oh, Sherlock, you're making me blush."

He stared at him for a few seconds. "Sarcasm?"

John nodded. "Sarcasm."

"I'm getting better at it, aren't I?"

"You're making marvelous progress," John said, dryly. "Alright. We'll go watch a plot-less movie. I'll wait outside. Put on some more clothes." He started to walk out.

" _More_ clothes? I think this is perfectly—"

But John had stopped listening a second ago, because he found something in the dust bin which he was not expecting to see.

A syringe.

John stopped, staring at it. It didn't make sense. He thought...Sherlock hadn't... _the marks—_ but... _why?_

"John, what are you—" he turned around then, his voice hitching as the words stopped, invariably following his line of vision.

"John, it's not—"

John turned to him, and the expression on his face must have been livid, because Sherlock shut up immediately, looking fearful.

John bent, and picked up the syringe, turning it around in his fingers. Then he turned to him completely, facing him. He walked right up to him— _god, he was so angry right now—_ and shoved the syringe right in front of his face.

"Explain," he said roughly.

"John,—" Sherlock's eyes widened in panic.

"I thought you didn't do them anymore!" John literally shrieked, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "I saw the marks on your arms for  _weeks_ and I never said a word, because they were fading, and then—and then  _this_ , Sherlock!" he waved the syringe for emphasis. "Why?"

Sherlock reached out and plucked it out of his hand, throwing it behind him. "I  _did_ stop."

John raised his eyebrows, "And it just manifested itself out of thin air, yeah?"

Sherlock turned away from him, his fingers tangling themselves roughly in his air. "John, it's—it's difficult. I used to do them... _all the time_ , but—but—I stopped, when  _you_ came."

John frowned. "What?"

He turned around then, his eyes frantic, speaking very quickly, like he was afraid John would vanish if he stopped talking. "John, I never had a reason to stop before you came. It was just— I  _had_ to, John, you don't understand—the madness inside my head, it's just crammed with these  _thoughts_ —each of them begging to be addressed and examined— ceaselessly swirling round and round, never _stopping._ That's why I get so bored, because I look at everything, and I  _see_ everything- I can see that you used an electric blade this morning, I know that you had pancakes, and I'm aware that Mycroft dropped you off and you had an unpleasant conversation with him of some sort- I can deduce the whole world top to bottom, John, and then I haven't anything to  _do_ because nothing is interesting. It's so dull, and boring, and I can't, I just can't—"

He seemed to have run out of words to explain the situation, but his hands were still moving, trembling with the depth of the words.

He looked at John, his eyes big, and weary, and John wanted to be  _angry_ at him, he wanted to shout and scream and shake his shoulders and  _demand_ to know why Sherlock would destroy the most extraordinary gifts he had, but he just felt  _sad_. He looked at Sherlock, those pale, luminescent eyes searching his face desperately, the trembling of those lips... and the anger just rushed out of him.

He sighed. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock slid to the floor, leaning against the bed, drawing his knees to his chest. "I understand if you want to leave. I've been expecting this to happen."

John sat down in front of him. He longed to touch him, because it hurt him that Sherlock thought so less of him. He was  _really_ pissed right now, but Sherlock could have murdered a person and John would have helped him hide the body.

"I'm not going anywhere. Don't be dramatic." He seemed to visibly relax at those words. "What did you mean, you never had a reason to stop before I came?"

Sherlock looked shocked. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No, not obvious, sorry."

"John, you're... _you_. You keep me interested. When I'm with you, I'm never... _bored_. So I don't need it."

Oh, god. The things he said. If he had  _any_ idea...

"If I'm enough, why did you take them yesterday?"

Sherlock bit his lip. John felt his gaze drop, in spite of everything. Then he ripped it away. "Yesterday...was a lapse in judgement. It won't happen again. I promise. John...I promise." The words has almost a manic edge to them, and John longed to comfort him, but...but...

"Sherlock, you can't take them every time you're bored."

"Oh, John," Sherlock groaned, "Don't you  _see_? Your mind—it's so placid, straightforward, barely used—"

"Gee, thanks—"

"Mine is like an engine, racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad- I  _need_ them, John—" he paused. "Well, I used to. I won't. Not again. If you tell me to." He looked at him almost beseechingly, his eyes wide and his thick dark hair sticking up every which way from where his fingers had tangled in them.

"I'm not telling you. I'm ordering you. Sherlock, that was  _cocaine_. It messes you up. Badly. You're so talented, you're  _gifted_ , you're a bloody genius and you want to ruin it with...with  _drugs_?"

"They don't affect me the way they affect other people."  _Fuck this bloke, he had the audacity to act superior when he had probably been high as a kite just a few hours ago._

"You're  _human_ , Sherlock, of course it affects you. You're so smart, you're so..." John couldn't even find words to explain what he  _was_. "Brilliant, you bastard, you're brilliant. Do you know the cost? Do you know how much it will  _ruin_ you?"

"I—"

"No, you bloody well don't!" he shouted, angry again. "Sherlock, if you overdose on this— you'll—" his voice shook. "You'll  _die_. Have you ever thought about that?"

"I would never OD," he said almost stiffly, and John could have strangled him.

" _How do you know_?"

"John, I won't do it again. It's...it is a distraction.  _Was,_ " he added, at the expression on John's face. "A distraction that I don't need anymore, because I have you."

"Yes, you have me," the words were simple enough, but they were so heavy with meaning and concern that it was almost difficult to get them out of his mouth. " _Will_ you be able to stop? Does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock scowled at him. "Of course he knows. He wants to send me to  _rehab._  As if I would need  _rehab._ Of all the dull, boring, mundane—"

"Rehab would help," John said hesitantly.

"I'm not an addict! I can stop when I want to."

"Have you stopped before?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "I've never  _completely_ stopped, no...but...I'm sure I can."

John sighed. "If you ever feel like you need a fix, you'll call me, okay?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Okay."

"I am serious."

"I know."

"Good."

"Can we go for that movie now?"

* * *

Sherlock wore clothes after a great deal of badgering from John, but finally consented to jeans ( _how juvenile, John!)_ and the purple shirt that he seemed overly fond of. It was a good shirt, John thought. A very good shirt indeed. It might have had something to do with the fact that it was rather tight and stretched across Sherlock's chest rather...pleasantly, but John banished that thought form his mind as immediately as it came. He also forced a jumper over his reluctant head.

(" _Well, at least it's not as hideous as your jumpers."_

" _My jumpers are not hideous."_

" _Denial is a very potent coping mechanism.")_

It was  _freezing_ outside, how could he let him go out in a shirt and jeans?

And of course, Sherlock would not leave the house without his Belstaff. John didn't mind. John  _far_ from minded. It made him look even more Shakesperean and Byronesque, which was Sherlock's natural state of being. Also, it was long enough to grab on to if Sherlock suddenly decided to run after a serial killer. Being friends with Sherlock meant you had to consider all possibilities, the more dangerous, the more likely.

"Sherlock," he asked, when they were going down the stairs. "Are we  _really_ going to watch a movie?"

He stopped, midway on the stairs themselves. "Do you not want to? You must tell me. Today we're going to do what  _you_ want to do."

"No, no," John shook his head. "I've got absolutely no problem. A movie is the most normal thing you could think of," he began walking again, and Sherlock followed him, "And since I don't do a great many normal things, it's very welcome."

"But you said you  _liked_ doing the not-normal things," Sherlock complained.

"I do. If I didn't like normalcy, we wouldn't be best friends. But I like doing them with  _you_. I wouldn't stand this behaviour from anyone else."

"Well, I hope not," he huffed in reply.

They were about to leave when John remembered something and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar before he walked out. "Breakfast."

"But, John—"

"Nope," John said simply, and dragged him like that to the kitchen. "No, we're not leaving until you've eaten something." He saw the housekeeper there, wiping the kitchen counter.

"Your fixation with food is slightly unhealthy," Sherlock mumbled, tripping slightly because of all the dragging.

"No, your aversion to it is unhealthy. I am a  _healthy_ human being with a  _healthy_ attitude towards food.  _You're_ the one who's waging an eternal war because you're too petty to realise that your body needs nutrition."

"My body can function fine with—"

"Ms. Turner," John said loudly, to the housekeeper, who was watching their interaction raptly, and turned to John with a look of awe on her face. "Could you get him something to eat, please?"

"Ms. Turner, there is no need to get me anything. John and I were just leaving." Sherlock was literally vibrating with the impatience of getting out of the kitchen.

"The cake. The rum cake from the lady across the street. Give him that, he likes cake."

"I don't—"

John turned to him, with a raised eyebrow. "Are your really going to argue with me over one slice of cake? I don't care what you say, but I am going to shove it down your throat if I need to."

Sherlock consented to the cake.

Getting him to eat was one of the highest achievements of John's life. Watching him shovel down the cake with a thoroughly annoyed expression on his face calmed John a great deal. He continued to mutter under his breath as they as they reached the door, Sherlock pushing it open.

And despite all that had transpired in the last twenty four hours, John felt  _happy_. He wanted to drag Mycroft here and show him Sherlock's face and prove to him that he was also  _happy_. Yes, he looked disgruntled and annoyed (he  _always_ looked like that) but he was radiating this warm glow of contentment that John felt so happy about that he wanted to frame this moment and keep it in his pocket forever.

He could almost feel Sherlock rumbling inside his head,  _Sentiment, John._

He smiled.

And then the smile faded.

There was a girl leaning against the gate outside the house, a  _really_ pretty girl who waved at them as they walked towards her.

He could  _feel_  the scowl on Sherlock's face. " _What_  is she doing here?" he muttered, swallowing the rest of the cake. And then, when they were in front of her, he looked down at her and asked her the very same question, with perhaps a bit more venom than before.

She was slender, as tall as John; with long dark hair and an angular face, silvery-blue eyes and bright red lips. She was dressed in a tiny dress with stockings and boots, and she was smiling at Sherlock in a way that made John feel highly uncomfortable.

"It's been a while since I saw you last, love. You keep getting lovelier every time I do." Her eyes sparkled with mischief, as she brushed the crumbs that still stuck to lips.

_Love? LOVE? Why was she calling him 'love'? She wasn't...was she? Why was she touching him like that?_

"How long have you been waiting here?" John definitely did  _not_ imagine the subtle way Sherlock stiffened under her touch, and leaned away slightly, not much to arouse suspicion, but enough to send a message,  _don't touch me_. Did she not see it? Or did she just choose not to?

She didn't bother to reply, as she had finally noticed John and she smiled widely at him, her pearly white teeth even whiter against the deep crimson of her lips.

"Oh,  _you_ must be  _Jawwn,_ " she drawled. "Oh, have I been dying to meet you."

And then, just like that, she bent forward and kissed him on the side of his mouth.

"You were wrong, Sherlock," she laughed. "He's  _very_ handsome. If you hadn't staked your claim first, I would have tried him out myself."

John's heart was beating really quite fast before he was able to register the meaning of her words. He wanted to say something but he was interrupted again.

"Stop molesting him and go away." Sherlock moved towards the gate. "John, come on. Leave her. She's annoying."

"Wait," John was growing tired of this. He held up a finger as if to say  _time out_. Then he pointed at the girl. "Who are you?" and then he moved his finger towards Sherlock. "And how do you know each other?"

Irene smirked. "He hasn't told you about me?"

"Evidently not. So I would like one of you to explain. Preferably not him, because he talks too fast and rarely makes sense."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, (which he had started to find unacceptably endearing, but he did not have time for this right now.) and Irene laughed.

"Dear God, I was right. You  _are_ in love with each other."

John frowned at her, trying to ignore the odd flutter his heart did at those words. "What?"

"As for who I am, that's easy," she smirked, and moved next to Sherlock, slipping an arm around his waist and pulling his resisting body closer. "I'm his girlfriend, Irene." and she reached up to kiss him on the base of his neck, because he was too tall for her to reach further.

And just like that John wanted to wrench Irene away from Sherlock and do to him that very same thing.

_Oh fucking hell_ , he thought immediately.  _No fucking way_.

Sherlock pushed her away. "Don't listen to her, she's lying. She does it appallingly often, and she thinks she can fool you because you may be too distracted by the size of her breasts and that horrifying shade of red on her lips to realise."

John gaped at him, and he wanted to laugh. He thought he was being distracted by  _Irene,_ for Christ's sake, when he had been staring at the pale expanse of Sherlock's neck a few seconds ago.

"I was  _not—"_

Irene patted his shoulder. " _Such_ a gentleman," she drawled. "Sherlock should learn a few things from you. Or he may like that kind of thing. I'm no stranger to  _recreational scolding_ , as his tosser of a brother would say."

John just stared at her.  _Recreational scolding? Girlfriend? Mycroft?_ He was clearly the only one disoriented with the situation. Was this what his whole life with Sherlock would be? Constantly being outpaced by smarter people around him?

"I don't—"he started to say, but Irene turned away from him and addressed Sherlock.

"Where are the both of you off to? Date?"

Sherlock, looking increasingly bored with this conversation, gripped John's arm and pulled him outside onto to the road. Irene followed.

John just went along meekly.

"We are going to watch a move," Sherlock said primly.

"Oh, lovely!" Irene exclaimed, wriggling in between the both of them and linking her arms with them jovially. "Take me along with you."

"Now wait just a moment—" John had finally decided to use his voice, because no  _fucking way in hell_ was he going to allow this psychotic girl along with them, because this was supposed to be Sherlock's apology- they were going to watch a  _movie_ together, for God's sake, it was probably the first and last time that would happen, and he'd be damned if he willingly brought along a third wheel.

'No, you're boring. Go away." Sherlock detangled himself from her.

Irene pouted. "But I haven't anything to do. Please?" then she looked beseechingly a John, and her eyes reminded him of Sherlock's eyes, and he found himself saying yes.

"Okay."

Sherlock groaned in frustration, but he didn't argue.

* * *

He should have argued. He should have brought the fucking roof down like he always did. Sherlock would just choose  _any_  inappropriate time to have a temper tantrum, he was always throwing temper tantrums, but now, when John would have wanted nothing better than for Sherlock to shout and scream and say, "no, let's not bring this one along," Sherlock had remained stubbornly quiet.

This was not a time for  _sulking_.

"If you didn't want her to come, why didn't you  _say_ so?" John hissed at him while they were buying tickets.

Sherlock looked at him, appalled. "I thought  _you_ wanted her to come."

"I just  _met_ her, why would I want her along?"

"Because she's pretty?"

John gaped at him. "Exactly how shallow do you think I am?"

"You danced with Sarah yesterday, for no particular reason except that she's pretty. She has  _no_ redeeming qualities to speak of whatsoever—"

"That is  _not_ true."

"You know it's true. It was a deduction, and my deductions are always right."

"You are an  _arrogant prick_  and the only reason I'm not punching you is because we are in public."

"No, you're not punching me because you don't want to."

"I  _always_ want to punch you."

Sherlock was about to say something in reply, when Irene walked up to them, said, "Boys this is hardly the place to have a domestic," she plucked the tickets out of John's hand and said, "Come along, now."

John was almost glad of her intervention, because he  _actually_ might have punched him.

"I don't know how you can have such violent feelings towards me when I am going to  _watch a movie_ with you," Sherlock said hotly, as they made their way towards the cinema. "A  _movie_ , John. Have you  _ever_ seen me watching movies, hmm? They are the most tedious,  _dull_ waste of  _time_ ever invented by man- I will tell you the potential ending of the story five minutes into it, I promise- and I am choosing to occupy my time doing  _this."_

"This was your idea," he snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh but failing miserably. He knew  _exactly_ why he was feeling so annoyed.  _Why was Irene with them?_

Sherlock looked wearily at him, and wisely chose not to reply.

He sat in between Irene and John, a long-suffering look on his face as if he were being sentenced to an execution. John would have smacked him if he didn't find it so adorable. Why did he find _everything_ that prat did adorable? Clearly there was something wrong with him.

He scarcely watched the movie at all, because he was distracted by the fact that it was so bloody  _dark_ in the hall, and he could hear Irene whispering in Sherlock's ear— _and what was she even telling him_? And it was becoming almost impossible to sit this close to Sherlock, he was probably going to combust right on spot, but he had no idea why he felt so  _fucking uncomfortable_.

Suddenly, Sherlock leaned in and whispered to John, his breath tickling his ear. "Are you alright?"

John turned sharply towards him. "Am I  _alright_?" he whispered furiously.

Sherlock looked appalled at his outburst. "Yes," he repeated slowly. "You seem...nervous."

"Why would I be nervous?"

"I could come up with five possibilities, taking into account your personality and the current situation, but if I tell you, you may shout at me so I'm asking you myself."

"Well if you're  _so_ very  _clever_ ," John muttered viciously, "Then why don't you just  _deduce_ and you'll have your bloody answer, Mr-I-could-come-up-with-five-possibilities?"

"John," Sherlock said rather helplessly, but John stubbornly refused to listen to him and turned his attention back to the screen.

Sherlock made a whiny noise of disappointment and did the same. Then John was hyper aware of the fact that Irene's head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder, and he didn't even want to sit there anymore. He could picture her perfectly without needing to turn to her, and he pictured Sherlock and Irene side by side in his head, and he just  _saw_ them, the two of them perfect and elegant and absolutely beautiful, and John felt stupid and out of place and just wondered  _why the hell_  Sherlock had picked  _him_ of all people to be his 'best friend' when he was so achingly brilliant and he could have had anyone he wanted.

The lights came back in the hall when the interval started, and Sherlock rubbed his eyes like he had been sleeping all this time, and John wondered if he had nestled closer to Irene, laid his head upon hers and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair...

_Fuck no._

Irene smiled at him, then, a strange smile that seemed to mock him and say,  _I know exactly what you're thinking of John, and I don't plan on stopping._

Sherlock yawned widely, then, and said, "I'll be back," and walked out.

John immediately turned to Irene and asked her in a voice that he hardly recognized as his own. "Okay. What's your game?"

She raised both eyebrows. "My game? I don't have a game."

"You and Sherlock. What is it? Are you in love with him? Is he in love with you? What?"

She smirked. "What makes you think I would tell you?"

"if you knew Sherlock at all, then—"

"I know what he likes."

That made John stop dead and stare at her. "What?" he asked weakly, but he wasn't a moron, and the meaning behind her words was clear enough. But thinking of  _Sherlock_ and  _Irene_ in  _that_ way was...was...

Sherlock came back, then, and sat down, but then he seemed to sniff out the tension in the air like a bloodhound, and he looked at the both of them in turn before snapping, " _Now_ what is it?"

"Nothing," Irene said smoothly, as the lights went off again. "The movie is boring. I'm leaving. Ta ever so much." And then she was gone.

And just like that, all the tension seemed to leave John and he took a deep breath of  _relief_ , and turned to Sherlock and said, "She's right. The movie is boring, you're clearly not enjoying it, and neither am I. Let's go."

He felt Sherlock's gaze on him, poking and prodding like he was a corpse, the questions in his eyes coiling around him tightly and almost suffocating him.

"Okay," he said, and the both of them left the hall quietly, even though John could hear almost hear the wheels turning round and round in Sherlock's head, as he tried deduce the situation and come up with answers. He didn't speak until they were inside the cab.

"John," he said, evenly, turning to him, his voice low and rumbling and maybe a little nervous.

"Sherlock," John replied.

"You're angry."

"Yes." And John felt sick with himself, because he was blaming Sherlock, and he had no right to do that, this ridiculous situation was hardly his fault, so why couldn't he listen to that logical voice inside his head?

"Why?"

"Sherlock," he said, sitting up and looking right into his bewildered eyes. "What's up with you and Irene?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Are the both of you shagging each other?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits. "Why are you asking me ridiculous questions?" his voice dripped with disgust.

John barely flinched at his tone. "Because the evidence is very suggestive."

" _What_ evidence? What do  _you_ know about evidence?"

"I spend a lot of time with you."

"Exactly," Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Which is why you should know not to ask me stupid questions."

"You're not saying yes or no."

"I am not going to deign that with a reply." He turned to look outside the window as if he was signalling the end of the conversation.

"What's so touchy about the question?"

Sherlock turned back to look at him, his pale cheeks slightly tinged with pink. He looked tired. "It's not the question, john. It's  _you_. You're being impossible. Today was not supposed to end like this. Today was supposed to be a  _you_ day. I had planned on making you happy so that you would forgive me for yesterday. But you have ended up disgruntled and unhappy and I disapprove of this entirely."

"You should have told Irene not to come." John felt sickened with himself again. Why was he saying things he didn't even  _mean_?

"You give her unnecessary credit, John. If you give her the power to ruin a perfect afternoon, she will. You were paying far too much attention to her ministrations than required and that ended up ruining your mood. So don't blame me."

Which actually made a lot of sense, thought John. "I'm not blaming you."

"Yes, you are," Sherlock said tiredly. "And it's annoying. I don't understand why you're jealous, you have no reason to—"

"I'm not  _jealous,_ " John said defensively.

Sherlock' lip quirked up in a half smile. "The evidence is very suggestive."

"You arrogant prat," John muttered, but he didn't feel quite so angry anymore.

"So we're back to calling names, which means you're in a better mood."

"Prick." John felt his own lips twitch. Sherlock was right, he was giving the girl too much importance. This afternoon was supposed to be  _theirs,_  and he had almost ruined it with some misplaced jealousy.

Had he said jealous? He didn't mean jealous. He meant...er...what did he mean, exactly?

"Yes, I know. Now let's go home and play cluedo."

" _No,_ " John muttered. "We are  _never_ playing that again..."

"So  _what_ do you want to do? Stop thinking about Irene, it's an absolute waste of time—"

"Do you like her?"

"I find her tolerable. I  _like_ you. You're my best friend; she was one of those pointless distractions I had in my life before you came along. I doubt you're so stupid as to not see the difference."

His words made John's heart slow down and race all at once. It made him feel extremely warm inside, and also froze his hands and feet. "And how exactly did she  _distract_ you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for  _fuck's sake_ , John. There is nothing sexual between us. I have not shagged her, she has not shagged me. We have not shagged each other. There. Happy?"

And it did, it made him very happy, but John hadn't expected for his synapses to start firing when he heard Sherlock say words like 'sexual' or 'shagged'; it elicited a very odd feeling, and maybe even a slight stirring in his pants, which quite frankly, alarmed John. It was just...the way he...  _said_ it...in that fucking  _voice_.

Sherlock stared at him. "John?" Damn those fucking eyes, they seemed to be searching every centimetre of his face. John could  _feel_ the heat on his cheeks, and fuck him if Sherlock didn't notice them too. The bloke noticed  _everything_.

The only thing that came out of his mouth was, "You've never sworn before." His voice sounded shaky and breathy to his ears.

"That's because I don't. Profanity is an excuse for people who don't have a basic grasp of the English language. But back to my question. Have I settled this ridiculous situation once and for all? Can you please start thinking rationally again?"

"Er. Okay." John was too distracted by the physical reaction his body seemed to be having when Sherlock said certain words to say anything else.

"Small mercies," Sherlock muttered under his breath, looking outside the window. John took the blessed three seconds to try and get a hold on himself when Sherlock turned around to face him again, a smirk playing on the corner of his lips. "Oh, and John," he leaned forward so John could see it even clearer.

"W-what?"

"You've got lipstick all over your mouth."

And then, Sherlock lifted his hand up, and his long, elegant fingers casually brushed the side of John's mouth to smudge off the lipstick.

_Wait_ , John thought.  _When did this happen. Why...fuck._

His fingertips seemed to move agonizingly slowly, dragging down the corner of his lip as he carefully wiped it off.

And then fingers were gone, too soon for John's taste, and the burning sensation that they had left in their wake still buzzed and arched at the corner of John's mouth. He couldn't  _possibly_ have...did he _just_...

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed approvingly, settling back into his seat with a satisfied sigh. "You accuse me of engaging in sexual activities with Irene when you're the one with her lipstick smudged on your mouth."

"I, ugh..." John's brain had temporarily shut down. He longed to brush his fingers over the burning skin, which felt so hot that he was almost certain it was on fire.

"No need to reply, John," the smirk stubbornly refused to leave his face.  _Arrogant bastard._ "We can go home now, drink tea, and watch god-awful tv. Sound good to you?"

John wondered if he was imaging the double meaning to his words.

Half of him hoped he wasn't.

Which, quite frankly, was even more alarming than the slight straining in his trousers.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was no fan of emotion. Sentiment was ridiculous and he detested it. Simple. And he had known for the majority of his life that he would never be in a position where he would feel  _so fucking much_ of sentiment that it would physically hurt. He had also believed, that he would never be so happy that he couldn't breathe.

Sherlock Holmes was very rarely wrong, and being mistaken about any other situation might have reduced him to a bawling mess of childish immaturity, but in this case, he was very,  _very_ glad that he was wrong.

Which was why he couldn't decide if he should berate Irene Adler about what she had done, or thank her profusely for it. Incidentally, right now, he was leaning against the fence at the back of his house, dressed in his pyjamas and his dressing gown, lighting a cigarette next to her.

"Okay," he said, puffing out the smoke. "Explain."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, Holmes. You're supposed to be brilliant. Go on. Deduce."

Sherlock smirked. "John said the same thing to me today," then he frowned. "Although he said it with a negative connotation, I believe. I don't really know  _why_ , but when I suggested what I  _thought was true—_

"He became defensive," Irene finished, grinning. "What did he ask you?"

Sherlock shrugged, flicking ash off the cigarette tip. It glowed in the darkness. "He seems to have been under the notion that you and I are in some sort of sexual relationship." He rolled his eyes. "As if I would ever have sex with  _you."_

"You wound me, Sherlock. But what did you tell him?" she looked far too eager.  _Women_ , thought Sherlock, annoyed.

"What do you think I told him? That you and I were shagging wildly seven times a night? I told him I wouldn't touch you with a six foot pole."

She looked affronted. "You did?"

"Eh," he muttered. "In a manner of speaking."

Irene groaned. "You  _pisspot_ ," she said. "After everything I did to make him jealous—"

He turned to her sharply. "So you  _were_ trying to make him jealous," his eyes narrowed.

"Well, obviously. He clearly likes you, but he's almost as thick as you when it comes to romance. He just needed a push in the right direction."

Sherlock almost choked on his own cigarette. Of all the  _crazy_ ,  _ridiculous_ things—and why had his pulse quickened suddenly? "He's  _not—_ I'm not—what  _romance?!_ " he spluttered incoherently. Good God, he was never  _incoherent_. What was she talking about? And why did he feel so hot suddenly? It was the beginning of December, for Christ's sake...

Irene just smirked at him. "Boys," she said triumphantly, as if that provided all the answers. "Sherlock, you went and watched a  _movie_ with him today. You went to a sodding  _party_ for him, and you bloody well  _solve crimes_ together! Use your head and draw a conclusion based on the logic—isn't that what you do?"

"I come to  _likely_ conclusions," he snapped, although he couldn't help feeling the hot flush creep along his neck. "We're  _friends_ , for God's sake."

She raised her eyebrows. "You're blushing."

"I am  _not_ ," but the heat on his cheeks said otherwise.

"He likes you too. Come on, you know it. You've seen the signs."

"I—" then he stopped. The  _signs_...yes. Dilated pupils. Erratic pulse. He had them all. Those few moments in the cab today—he could almost  _feel_ John's flushed skin underneath his fingertips. A stupid move, but an enlightening one all the same. But...no. He shook his head. "John isn't...John isn't gay," he finished lamely.  _Brilliant deduction_ , he thought.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Ugh, you and your  _labels_. You just find someone you like, Sherlock, and it can be a girl or a boy or whatever you want. It's just that simple."

Why was she making this so  _difficult_ for him? "That's not..true," he swallowed thickly. "Even if, even if that had even a  _modicum_ of truth to it...why would John be attracted to  _me?_  Look at me, I'm an arsehole. Even I know that. John is...John is  _nice._ He likes pretty girls who say nice things and do nice things. Not high functioning sociopaths who think  _murders_ are more fun than parties and who literally spend the majority of their adolescence siphoning off cocaine like fucking water." He stubbed the cigarette rather violently under his foot and ripped another one out of his pocket. "He doesn't even know I smoke, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, honey—"

"And why would  _I_ be attracted to him? John is my friend; I'm fond of him— that ends there. What you're talking about...it sounds dangerously close to a  _relationship_ and that is a degree of affection I am not capable of."  _Liar_ , his subconscious seemed to whisper to him.

"Sherlock," Irene snapped. "You don't know what you're saying. You think everyone else is stupid, but have you even seen  _yourself_? All this 'caring is not an advantage' bollocks- that's what your brother says, isn't it? Well you can go tell him to fuck himself, because—"

"Irene—"

"No, shut up. You," she poked him in the middle of his chest rather painfully and it took him so much by surprise that his cigarette fell out of his fingers. He opened his mouth to say something but Irene was already raving. "For the first time in  _years_ , you've got this boy who follows you around like a puppy, and you drool after him, and you care for him more than I've seen you care for anyone. So let me tell you something. You sort out your feelings because otherwise some pretty bitch who 'says nice things and does nice things' is gonna take him, and then you're going to be wondering where on earth you went wrong."

"But I—"

"Oh, sod off," she muttered, pushing him away. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"I was wondering the same thing. Honestly, Irene, it serves no purpose," he licked his lips and his voice shook ever so slightly when he said the next words. "John and I are just friends, and I'm happy with that. I am not going to ruin the only friendship I am likely to ever have through this misconceived notion of  _romance_ you're so bent upon."

Irene stared at him. "Oh my god, how thick are you?"

"Not thick, practical," Sherlock corrected, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. "I'm going upstairs. Go home."

He walked away then, leaving Irene staring after him with a mixture of fury and shock.

He didn't sleep that night.

* * *

John was wishing he had never gone to that sodding party  _at all_.

He seemed to lose all sense when he was with pretty girls, no matter how bitchy they were. And now he was going to the  _bloody_ Christmas Formal with Sarah and he didn't even  _want to_. Apparently she had asked him that evening and he had said yes and that was that. Jesus, sometimes he wished he was as rude as Sherlock and he could just say 'No, I can't go with you because I don't actually like you all that much,' but  _no._  He had to have this ridiculous sense of morality that prompted him to say something like, "Oh, really? Haha. That's fantastic. Sounds fabulous. _"_ He didn't even use the word 'fabulous', for God's sake.

"Janine wants to know if Sherlock's going with anyone," Sarah mentioned, while they were leaning against the wall outside school waiting for class to start.  _Where the hell was Sherlock? Of all the days he chose to be late...now he had to fend off romantic proposals for him. Janine. Please. She was a vapid airhead and Sherlock would get bored with her in thirty seconds._

Although he  _had_ danced with her that night.

"John?" Sarah prompted.

"Huh? What?" John shook himself out of the irrational flare of envy.  _This had to stop_.

"Janine. Do you think Sherlock would go with her? Oh, and there's that other girl, Kitty, I think- and Louise-"

John burst out laughing. "Sherlock? Go to the  _Christmas Formals_? You're not serious are you?"  _How many of them wanted to go with him?!_

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Trust me, I  _told_ her it was a lost cause. She seemed bent upon it. I would have told her he fancies blokes, but I haven't seen him with  _anyone_. I mean, half the school thinks he fancies  _you_ , or the other way around, but I've—"

John almost choked on his own saliva. He laughed, a nervous, hysterical laugh that sounded slightly manic to his own ears. "He doesn't fancy  _me,"_ he all but shrieked. "We're...he's—it's completely platonic, I assure you." But there was snide voice at the back of his head which seemed to whisper into his ear  _is it_?

Sarah's eyes widened slightly at his over reactive response. "I know that," she said, rather suspiciously. "I told them that you're perfectly straight. Aren't you?"

"I'm straight," John clarified quickly. "Perfectly straight. Very straight. Straighter than a pole,"  _What the fuck was wrong with him?_ He would have probably gone on to list all the ways in which he was 'perfectly straight, very straight, straighter than a pole," had he not been saved by the appearance of a slender, dark haired figure he knew only too well.

Sherlock seemed to have been in the process of entering the classroom without him, (he only hoped he had just blatantly ignored him because he disliked Sarah) but John grabbed his arm before he could go in. Sherlock looked down at him, at the fingers around his bicep, and then at Sarah, his gaze calculating as usual.

"Hello, John," he said slowly, his gaze softening when he looked at him. John unclasped his grip and grinned at him. Sarah had visibly stiffened beside him.

"I'll see you later, John," she said coolly. "You could help me pick out my dress for the dance," she seemed to have added that last bit to Sherlock rather than John, and then she sauntered off.

Sherlock watched her as she went, his eyes narrowed and his lips a hard line. "Charming," he muttered, walking in with John.

John rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. She's no picnic," they took a seat in the middle of the classroom, (it was a compromise; Sherlock wouldn't come for class unless they could sit at the back, and John refused to accompany him to the woods for lunch unless he could sit in the front) "But I seem to have agreed to go with her to some shite Christmas dance that's happening at school." He ruffled his hair frustratedly.

"Ah yes, the Christmas Formal," Sherlock nodded, his tone somehow dropping about a dozen degrees. Or maybe he was just imaging it. Obviously imagining it. "I see." He adopted his usual pose of fingers-beneath-chin, the I'm-only-pretending-to-listen-but-I've-got-more-interesting-things-in-mind-at-the-moment expression on his face. Although John couldn't recall when Sherlock had used that expression on  _him_. Surely not because of a silly Christmas dance?

"It's a ridiculous thing anyway," John suddenly found himself explaining. "I'll just come for an hour, move around a bit with her, drink the punch and then go. "

"John," Sherlock drawled, elongating his name like only he did, "You really don't need to justify yourself to me," he ruffled his hair with both his hands the way he did when he was frustrated or pissed off—making it even more tangled and messy. (it only seemed to improve his looks, though), "Sarah's a...nice girl. You should go with her."

John looked sceptically at him. "You don't  _like_ Sarah."

Sherlock's gaze wandered over the people slowly trickling into class, taking seats and scraping back chairs. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up his pale neck as he did so. He cleared his throat and answered after a pause, "True. But  _you_ do."

"I don't...I don't like  _like_ her," John said, sounding and feeling stupid. What was he, five? But Sherlock was acting so...strange.  _Oh my god_ , he suddenly thought.  _Is this about the cab ride? Shit, I_ knew  _I was acting like an idiot._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Grammatically and figuratively incorrect," he said contemptuously. "Either you like a person or you don't. You do, it's perfectly fine for you to admit it." He wasn't even  _looking_ at him, god damn it. And there were  _other_ things John should have been admitting, but he pushed all that to the back of his mind.

"Sherlock," John said, unable to say anything else.

He looked at him, then, his gaze intense, and John couldn't have named the colour of his eyes if someone had held a knife to his throat. "What?" he asked.

 _I'm having all this ridiculous and weird feelings that I've never felt before and I can't make sense of it and my thoughts are a mess and I wish I could tell you about it but I don't want you to get freaked out or anything, for Heaven's sake, can't you see it yourself_?

"Nothing," he muttered.

Sherlock held his gaze for a few more seconds, and John had the uncanny feeling that Sherlock knew  _exactly_ what was going on in his mind, but then he turned away with a quiet, "Okay," and the feeling was over. He felt slightly disappointed, but then, he supposed it was for the best.

Anderson and Sally came and sat across from them, Sally greeting with a snide, "Hey, freak." Some of the other kids snickered to themselves, but Sherlock just rolled his eyes and said, "Fuck off, Sally," in a rather tired tone, and it worried John. Jesus, there were so many things he wanted to  _say_ , and no way of saying them.

Unfortunately, he had to put those unsettling thought to the back of his mind because Mr. Preston had just entered class, flourishing a sheaf of papers with a manic grin on his face. "Surprise test!" he declared jovially, to a chorus of groans. He passed out the papers, and John had to concentrate because he certainly wasn't a genius like Sherlock.

"I don't know how to do this," he whispered furiously to himself whilst he was scribbling god-knows-what on the answer sheet.

"It's just a stupid test," Sherlock said disdainfully. His own paper was a mess of scrawls and figures, but he evidently knew what he was doing. "Just do what you can and I'll explain it to you later."

"You will?" John felt a sense of relief. He didn't even know how worried he had been about Sherlock's perceptible change of manner until he had made that offer of help.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock answered smoothly, frowning at him, his pale eyes curious under his fringe of dark hair. "Why wouldn't I?"

John stared at him for a few moments, wondering why on earth something so simple meant so much to him suddenly. "Thanks," he whispered back.

Sherlock shrugged. "Whatever."

* * *

"You attended every class this morning," John said, as they were ambling towards the woods.

Sherlock's lip twitched. "Janine seems to have made it her mission to pursue me wherever I go. If I stayed outside class, she would have undoubtedly found me."

John raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so it has nothing to do with me. You know, not because  _I'm the one who forces you to take classes_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Narcissm," he rumbled. "So unattractive."

John could finally feel himself relaxing. That strange sense of worry had been gnawing at him since he had seen Sherlock this morning, well, in fact ever since that weird moment in the cab—gradually faded as he and Sherlock lapsed into their usual banter. It was fine. It was all fine.

At least he hoped it was. Because he  _really_ didn't want to botch this friendship up with some misplaced apprehension.

Sherlock leaned his head against the tree that he was so fond of, biting gingerly into the cheese-and-ham sandwich that John had forced upon him like he was eating dirt. Sherlock didn't have an absence of an appetite, exactly; he simply  _forgot_ to eat sometimes. If it wasn't for John, Sherlock would have never had lunch at school. He knew Mycroft forced him to eat when he was at home, but usually he was working so Sherlock would have nothing but tea and toast throughout the whole day.

"I don't like ham," he said sullenly.

"You don't like  _anything_ ," John countered.

"I like mince pies."

"Mince pies are  _unhealthy_. I'm not going to allow you to have  _sweets_  for lunch."

"You're so  _boring,"_  he muttered, stuffing the last of the sandwich into his mouth and dusting his hands on his (rather form fitting) school jumper.

"Oh  _god forbid_ I try to force nutrition on you," John scooted a bit closer to Sherlock involuntarily. He didn't notice he had done it until their shoulders were almost touching. It should have made him uncomfortable, judging from the unsettling direction his thoughts had been progressing in since yesterday, but it didn't, and he didn't want to move. The warm presence of Sherlock by his side was comforting.

"Sherlock," John said suddenly.

"Hmm?" he asked. His head was leaning against the tree, and his eyes were closed, the long lashes fanning against his cheekbones.

"Are you okay?"

That was when his head snapped up, and he looked at John, his pale gaze confused. "Am I okay? Why are you asking?" He frowned.

John sighed. Maybe it was a bad idea to have asked him. He shrugged. "It's just—I don't know. Just thought you were acing sort of odd like this morning."

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. " _I_ was acting odd?"

John pursed his lips, wondering if he should start this conversation now. He ploughed on. "I don't know. I don't think I should tell you...but it's been sort of bothering me."

"John," Sherlock said in a low voice, his eyes searching every corner of his face, as if convinced he would find an answer there. "What is it?"

"I don't know," John said again helplessly. "You've been all distant this morning."

'Distant?" Sherlock echoed, surprised. "Am I being distant now?"

"No," John answered, honestly.

"Then why are you worried?"

"I'm not  _worried."_

Sherlock raised his eyebrows sceptically. "Well, not  _worried,"_ John defended. "It's just...never mind."

Sherlock looked at him for a few seconds, his gaze searching his face. Then he looked away, sighing, running a frustrated hand through his shaggy curls. "John," he said, shifting slightly uncomfortably and licking his lips. "I thought I should ask you something. I don't really know the protocol for these kind of things, but—" he waved a hand about vaguely. "Irene showed me some perspective, something I never really considered before..."

John felt a funny feeling settle in the pit of his stomach. "Sherlock—" he started to say, but then they were suddenly interrupted by a female voice calling his name.

Sarah Sawyer tumbled into the woods, looking flushed and very pleased with herself. She grinned widely when set her eyes on John. "Oh, here you are. I've been looking all over for you."

John had to blink a few times before he was able to register that she was actually there. "Oh, really?" he asked stupidly.

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed to slits as he took in the sight before him, then he seemed to retreat back into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest and looking everywhere but at John and Sarah. John had learned to recognize his body language easily; it was what he did whenever he wanted to distance or remove himself from a certain social situation. John felt entirely helpless and he didn't know what to  _do._ Sherlock had been about to say something important, something that had taken him a lot of effort to- and now he  _knew_ he wouldn't say it again. He looked at the hardness in his eyes, and the clenched jaw- and he felt absolutely sick.

"John?" Sarah asked.

John ripped his gaze from Sherlock's expressionless face and looked at Sarah. "Yeah?"

She bit her lips, a blush creeping up her cheeks. "Could I borrow you for a moment?"

"Oh, ugh," he looked at Sherlock to see if it was okay, but he was stubbornly refusing to look at him. He turned back to Sarah, getting up and dusting his trousers. "Yeah, sure. Sherlock, see you in a bit?" he asked the last part rather uncertainly.

Sherlock gave a barely perceptible nod which he realised was all he was likely to get, so he romped on after Sarah. She had taken his arm, but he wasn't overly excited about the physical contact. His shoulder still felt slightly warm where it had brushed against Sherlock's.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't really into self-harm, he saw it as a blatant attention-seeking tool, but he could have hit himself right now. How idiotic  _was_ he? His genius was a farce. If it hadn't been for Sarah, Sherlock could have ruined the only friendship he had in a few minutes.

Oh, fuck,  _Sarah._  He groaned frustratedly, flopping against the grass. He didn't know if he was capable of disliking someone so much. Previously, Mycroft had occupied that honourable position, but Sarah was  _far_ more intolerable that his cake-eating brother.

God, these...these  _feelings_ were going to drive him mad. He needed to talk to someone, ask if this was  _normal._  But then again, he thought rather bitterly, when had anyone considered him 'normal'?

 _John does._   _John doesn't think you're a freak_.

Which was one of the things, on the ever-growing list in that sun-washed room of Sherlock's mind palace, that made him so remarkable, and too valuable to lose. Sherlock would just need to get a grip on himself. This was a temporary thing. And the feelings wouldn't have surfaced if Irene hadn't stirred them up.

 _Wouldn't they_?

Sherlock couldn't stay here anymore. He was going to drive himself crazy thinking things he wouldn't ever have thought of if John Watson hadn't been shoved into his perfectly well organised life.

Because that's what it had been, hadn't it, he thought, as he walked towards school. Organised. Planned. But boring. Now no day was the same as the last. Even exceedingly normal, every-day things like  _eating_ or _watching telly_ were amazing and wonderful if he did them with John.

He wondered where the hell Sarah had dragged John off to. Probably to snog him senseless somewhere, he thought snidely.

_What's up with all the jealousy? It not like YOU want to snog John._

Sherlock agreed. Definitely not. That was ridiculous.

* * *

John really wasn't in the mood to snog Sarah.

She seemed to have other plans. The fact that she had called him away from Sherlock for a  _sodding snog_ in a  _supply closet_ annoyed him to no end. Still, she had him pressed up against the door and her tongue was halfway down his throat, so he wasn't in a position to let her know his objections. But when her hands reached for the buttons in his trousers, he instinctively grabbed her wrist.

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to?"

"Erm, no," he answered, letting go of her hand, and fixing his tie. "Not in a supply closet, at least." He didn't want to 'do it' anywhere, in fact, but he didn't want to sound rude. He pushed her gently back. "Maybe later?" he checked his watch. "We have class in five minutes."

Both her eyebrows went up. "I thought we'd miss class," she snapped. "I mean—aren't you—um-you know..."

"Aren't I?"

"You know. Turned on?" She bit her lip. John remembered when he used to find that alluring. Now he just wanted to get out of this suffocating closet and the scent of Sarah's perfume.

"Uh," he didn't exactly know how to respond to that. Unfortunately, his cock had been rather unresponsive the whole time she had her body pressed up against his, but that was probably because he was thinking about Sherlock. Not in  _that_ way, obviously, he hadn't been wondering what Sherlock's lips would feel like against his own...no. No way. Just worried about him. "I...am," he finished lamely, knowing very well how unconvincing that sounded. "But..er...I don't want to get off next to tubes of detergent." He laughed nervously, but Sarah didn't look amused.

"Fine," she muttered. "Let's go," she opened the door and even though she had seemingly implied that they would go together, she left without another word.

He knew that the decent thing to do was to go after her and apologise or whatever this social situation demanded (god, now he was even starting to  _think_ like him) but he needed to find Sherlock.

It was difficult to find him, he wasn't in any of his usual spots, but when he was walking back through the rather dark corridor that run from the back end of the building, the familiar mop of dark hair caught his eye.

"Sherlock!" he called.

He jogged up to him, and Sherlock looked down at him with his usual deadpan expression. "Hi," John said, rather breathlessly.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over his entire body, and John was suddenly mortified, because this was Sherlock Sodding Holmes and he probably knew that Sarah had been trying to snog him senseless in a supply closet five minutes ago.

As expected, a dark eyebrow went up, and a smirk played on the corner of his mouth. "John," he rumbled. Then the bastard dropped his bag, leaned against the wall behind him and crossed his arms over his chest. "How was the snogging?"

"I ...wasn't snogging," John stammered, which was probably the lamest lie he had said in all of history. Sherlock cocked his head to one side, the smirk growing wider.

"You know me, John. This won't work."

John sighed, glaring at him. "Go on. Dazzle me. How did you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's not insult my intelligence by asking me to state the obvious."

John raised his eyebrows. "It sounds like you're telling me you don't know."

"Oh  _please_ ," Sherlock scoffed. "Look at yourself, John. Your collars are all ruffled up at the edges, as if someone's grabbed you to get closer," then, because John was already standing close to him, Sherlock simply leaned forward and casually fixed John's collar like it was of no consequence.  _Fuck_.

"There's the loosened tie you obviously tried to redo hurriedly but didn't manage that quite so well..." Sherlock was standing now, right in front of him, his hands on his tie as he tightened it, pulling up the knot. His eyes were on the base of his neck as he said, "Then there's the two top buttons of your shirt. Open," he fastened the buttons, the cold touch of his fingertips on his breastbone sending shivers down his spine. John seemed unable to move or to say anything. "Then, obviously, one would only have to look at your lips to clinch the deduction." His gaze fell to his mouth, his lips parting slightly. He was so close now that John could literally feel the heat radiating from his skin. His mouth was just a few inches away from his own, Sherlock would just have to lean forward slightly to close the gap, and John could hear the blood rushing in his ears at the thought.

"My lips?" John asked, weakly

Tearing his gaze away, he looked right into John's eyes then, smirking. "Swollen, John."

John gave a slightly manic, hysterical laugh. "Brilliant, obviously."

Sherlock moved away from him in one fluid movement, picking up his bag, singing it over his shoulder. "I am, aren't I?" he started walking away. "Come along, John. I believe we have some tedious class to attend."

John gaped at him, sauntering away like the last minute hadn't even happened. His heart race had increased ten times, and his skin felt cold at the sudden loss of stifling proximity. He followed Sherlock down the hall.

 _Something is wrong with me_.

* * *

_We're friends, we're just friends, Sherlock and are just friends. This is stupid and ridiculous and it will never happen again._

Chemistry Practical was an exercise in self-control as John sat next to Sherlock in the third bench, having already broken his third test tube.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, his dropper in his slender fingers. "Are you alright?"

"What?" John wiped his hands on a towel, brushing the broken pieces into the rubbish bin. "I'm fine."

"Something to do with Sarah?" Sherlock asked, in that vaguely bored tone of his.

"Maybe," he muttered. "Really don't want to go for that dance."

Sherlock bit back a laugh. "Then don't  _go._  It's going to be dreadful. You'll hate it."

"I know," he replied wearily. "But I promised Sarah."

Sherlock's snorted inelegantly. "Yes, there's always that."

"I don't even know  _how_ to dance," John suddenly burst, exasperated.

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, his multi-coloured eyes wide, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth. He looked hesitant.

John raised an eyebrow at him. "What?"

Sherlock licked his lips nervously. He put down his beaker. "I could help you."

"What?"

"I could teach you to dance. Just basic stuff, it's not that—"

" _You_ will teach me how to  _dance?_ You know how to  _dance?"_ John couldn't believe his ears.

Sherlock looked affronted and really quite adorable, with the undeniable embarrassed blush creeping along his pale skin. "Yes," he scoffed. "I am a  _fantastic_ dancer, I will have you know. My parents made me take lessons when I was a child." He sniffed.

John leaned forward, grinning. "You'll teach me how to dance?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Okay. You're going to teach me how to dance." He had to bite back a laugh.

"You're making fun of me," Sherlock complained.

"No, no," John reassured him, although the idea of teasing Sherlock about it was tempting. But he hated making him feel uncomfortable, and if he liked to dance, there was nothing wrong with it. Quite frankly, John found it...well he found it rather sexy. "This is great. I want you to."

Sherlock smiled shyly. "Good."

* * *

John watched Sherlock lazily from the slouchy beanbag in front of the bookshelf as he pulled his school jumper over his head, flinging it unceremoniously into the corner of his room. It made his hair stand up every which way, and Sherlock even tied to fix it by running his hands through it rather aimlessly. John tried not to stare too much, at the flexing muscles of his back under his school shirt, at the long fingers dragging themselves through the tousled curls- but it was proving rather difficult.

_What was he doing here, anyway? He couldn't stand straight after Sherlock fixed his tie and now he was agreeing to him teaching him how to dance? How ridiculous was that?_

"So?" John asked, rather uncertainly, loosening his tie.

Sherlock ignored him as he rummaged in his desk drawer, brow furrowed in concentration before he pulled out an i-pod that looked like it had been stuck there for ages. Sherlock had to brush some dust off of it.

"Does that even work?" John asked.

Sherlock cast a withering look in his direction. "Of course it works," he muttered, setting up the speakers. "I wouldn't have offered you dance lessons if I was incapable of providing music."

"So that's what these are? Dance lessons?" John smiled at the thought.

"Aren't they?" Sherlock asked vaguely, scrolling through the music.

"I guess."

He finally tapped his finger on the screen, and a violin piece began to fill the room.

"Get up," he ordered.

John didn't even think twice about doing that, and walked up to Sherlock, who looked very pleased with himself.

"Okay," he said, looking at John with a calculating look in his eye. "We'll start with a waltz. We'll see how it goes from there."

"A waltz?" John repeated.

"You heard me," Sherlock grinned. Then he moved closer to John, and grasped his hand. His skin was slightly warm, and John's head spun at the sudden contact. He swallowed thickly. When Sherlock placed his hand on John's hip, it took all of his willpower not to crumple to a heap on the floor.  _Get a grip on yourself, Watson_.

Sherlock leaned down towards him, speaking into his ear, "Put your hand on my shoulder." His voice seemed to have dropped an octave.

John obeyed, reaching up and putting a hand on Sherlock's bony shoulder. He was a bit too tall, though, and it was a bit of a stretch. Sherlock noticed, and grinned devilishly.

"We seem to have a problem," he said, smirking. "Should we switch?" His warm breath tickled his ear.

John didn't quite know how to answer that. Any position was fine with him, as long as Sherlock's hands were on him somewhere.  _Shit. That sounds so dirty._ "Seems okay," he answered in a small voice.

"Very well," he said, interlacing his long fingers with John's. His touch on john's hip bone was sending waves of heat right through his body, and it seemed like a good idea to take off his jumper, but John didn't want to move at the moment.

"Follow my lead," Sherlock said, his voice low. John looked up at him, and his pale-gaze seemed to bore right through him. Was he imagining those dilated pupils?  _Obviously_.

Sherlock gripped John tightly, encircling his arm around his waist and pulling him slightly closer. John's hands felt clammy as Sherlock spun them around smoothly, and he felt all the breath rush out of his body in one great  _whoosh_.

"What's playing?" he asked, in a shaky voice, as Sherlock continued to fox-trot them around the room.  _Anything. Distract yourself._

"Tchaikovsky," Sherlock literally purred in his ear. "I'm rather partial to Tchaikovsky."

John laughed nervously, and then stepped on Sherlock's foot inelegantly. He flushed. "Shit, sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright," Sherlock pulled away slightly. "Just follow me, Like this- 1,2,3,...1,2,3..." John concentrated on his feet, because it was far more easier than concentrating on Sherlock's breath in his ear and his hands on his body and the fact that  _they were dancing the waltz, for fuck's sake._

It was easy, simple. It would have been easier if Sherlock didn't smell so good.

Then Sherlock began to talk in that fucking  _voice_ of his, and it became even harder.

"The Waltz emerged in the 16th century, originating in Austria and Southern Germany," Sherlock rumbled in his ear. John felt goosebumps erupt on every inch of his skin. "When people started doing it in England sometime around 1816, the very fact that the man's arm was around the lady's waist—" he drummed his fingers on the small of John's back for emphasis, "made it rather scandalous. It wasn't a traditional couple's dance."

"How do you know all that?" John asked, gripping Sherlock's shoulder blade rather tightly because he felt like he would fall if his grip slackened.

Sherlock chuckled. It was the most adorable and sexy thing he had ever heard. "I know things, John."

"Tell me more."

They completed one round, and Sherlock spun them around easily. "There were earlier forms of the Waltz," Sherlock complied. "From the 16th century itself. Montaigne was a French philosopher who wrote about a similar dance, one where the dancers were so close that their faces actually touched," Sherlock's lips were almost on his skin now, and John felt his lips lightly brush against his temple. A hot flush began to creep up along his neck.

"Shady," he joked weakly.

Sherlock smirked. "Quite an understatement." He bent forward again, switching their positions to a different rhythm. John barely registered the music, as beautiful as it was. All he was aware of was the warmth of Sherlock's hand on his waist, and his rumbling words in his ear, his voice all posh and velvety with its public school accent. " _Geschiche des Frauleins von Sternheim, Sophie Von La Roche_ ," he informed John.

"Book? French?" John swallowed. Sherlock speaking a foreign language, any foreign language, was doing things him. Everything that he said sounded absolutely  _filthy_.

"German," Sherlock rumbled. "' _But when he put his arm around her, pressed her to his breast, cavorted with her in the shameless, indecent whirling dance of the Germans, and engaged in a familiarity that broke all the bounds of good breeding—then my silent misery turned into burning rage_." John felt an uncomfortable tightening in his trousers.

_Shit. Shit. Get it under control. Think unsexy things. Unsexy thoughts. Don't think about his lips against your ear or his hand on your waist, don't—bloody hell, Sherlock._

"John?" Sherlock asked, his tone laced with slightly amused concern. "Are you okay?"

"I-ugh—" Was he okay? Fuck no. He was quite possibly getting an erection because he was dancing with his best friend and his cock certainly found that arousing and while that was all fine _HE WAS NOT GAY_.

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow questioningly, a slightly mocking tilt to his lips.  _Of all the obnoxious arseholes in the universe-_

"You?" he prompted. John registered that they had stopped moving.

"I, um—" he disentangled himself from Sherlock, who certainly didn't expect it, and stumbled slightly.

"John?" he asked, nervously, as John picked up his bag and ran a hand through his hair to tidy it.

John turned to him, sparing a glance as Sherlock's bemused and rather worried expression. "What is it?" he asked, stepping closer. John instinctively took a step back. Sherlock noticed it, and blushed a bit, stepping back.

"John, what—"

" I need to go," John said quickly.  _I need to get the fuck out of here_.

"But—" Sherlock looked quite frightened now.

"Sherlock, don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow," he kept his eyes on his face, because he  _definitely_  didn't need Sherlock risking a glance anywhere below his waistline and coming to his own deductions.

He frowned at him, his greyish-blue eyes clouded with thoughts. "Okay," he finally said.

John rushed out of there without a backward glance.

* * *

Sherlock leaned his head against the chair in the classroom, sighing frustradedly, wondering why John was so late. John was never late. But then, he shouldn't be surprised.

Of all the stupid, ridiculous things Sherlock was capable of, this was probably the most stupid and ridiculous. Now he had made John uncomfortable, and John was probably doing stupid things like questioning his sexuality and wondering if Sherlock would try to molest him again. He wasn't  _trying_ to, he never had been- although the feeling of John's body against his own and his hands in his hadn't been..unpleasant. Ugh, who was he kidding? It was bloody arousing, and if he couldn't admit it to himself, he couldn't admit it to anyone.

Sherlock had never felt sexually attracted to anyone, and he didn't know if he was now. He never really  _noticed_ people that way, but you couldn't  _ignore_ John's physicality. Because..because John was...John was  _gorgeous,_  there was no other way to put it, and for a boy who rarely found anyone attractive, this was definitely not something he was just imaging. But if it was John, then..that was it. Their friendship was over. Unless he was able to prevent himself from pawing at John like an animal. Which shouldn't be too difficult. He needed to keep John. The very thought of not being with John filled him with a clawing, frightful panic. He would do  _anything_ to keep him, and if that meant keeping the undeniable physical attraction he had to him hidden, so be it. He would also need to resist the temptation to shove him against the nearest wall and snog him senseless. Because he was  _definitely_ having those desires. It was surprising, and frightening, because these feelings were new and Sherlock did  _not_ know how to handle them, especially when the object of these desires was his best friend. Who was not gay. Also, it was an unbelievable thing that he was  _friends_ with Sherlock, so it was best to not push his luck.

He was shaken out of his thoughts when someone tumbled into the chair next to him. He lifted up his head, staring at the boy, ready to tell him off because that was  _John's_ chair and how dare he have the audacity to sit where  _John_ sat.

He was skinny, frailly built, with pale skin, almost as pale as his own. His dark hair was slicked back from his high forehead, and as he sat there, his pale fingers drummed lazily against the wooden surface of the desk. Sherlock frowned.

"Can I help you?" Sherlock asked.  _What I actually mean is get the fuck off John's chair he'll be here any moment_.

The boy turned to him then, his intense, brown gaze digging into Sherlock's. He smiled at Sherlock- a cold, polite smile that sent a shiver down his spine.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I asked—"

The boy grinned. "I know what you asked," he said, his voice low and deep. He took Sherlock's hand without invitation, and shook it. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's skin.

"Jim Moriarty," the boy said. "Hi."

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

There was something about him.

Something about him that just seemed off, something that Sherlock couldn't deduce, and it was driving him crazy. Every instinct of his told him to move as far away as he possibly could from the boy, and yet he found himself sitting there, subject to his seemingly innocent casual brushes of skin on skin. Every time their eyes locked, Sherlock felt a sick feeling in the hollow of his stomach, and a shudder of something he couldn't quite place his finger on, run down his spine, and it was a nauseating combination. The pretty Irish lilt, the soft brown eyes, and the mocking tilt to his lips; something, something  _something_. But  _what_?

John hadn't come yet. The first class was almost over, and John was nowhere. It had started out as a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, but twenty five minutes into class it was almost a full blown panic because he  _needed_ John.

"You seem nervous," Jim quipped, reaching across the desk to take a pencil from his side. His arm brushed across Sherlock's.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Do I? What a brilliant deduction."

"Was it?"

"No." Sherlock twirled the pencil between his lips. He was only half listening to the teacher speak, it was some rubbish twaddle about 16th century poetry, and classes only seemed slightly stimulating when John was with him. But now he had to face forty minutes of this insanity with this...this...whoever he was.

Jim smiled lazily at him. "You don't like me very much, do you?"

"Disliking you would require time and effort on my part, don't flatter yourself. I really don't care about you."

Jim chuckled under his breath. "So the rumours are true," he stretched languidly back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles.

 _Tedious_. "Oh, please,  _do_ enlighten me on the  _vastly_ interesting things you've heard about me." Sherlock took a long suffering sigh, keeping his eyes trained on the blackboard. He didn't know why he felt so uncomfortable with this boy...it was just...he just made his skin  _crawl_ , for some insane reason.

"Oh, not much," he replied airily. "I've been informed you're the institution's resident psychopath."

Sherlock's lips tilted upwards in the mockery of a smile.  _Obvious. Predictable. Dull_.

"The medically approved term is  _high functioning sociopath_. Do your research."

"Mmm," Jim made an approving rumble at the back of his throat. "Research on you. How enticing. Do you think I'd find anything about you on the net?"

"I'm sure you'd be the first to know."

" _Sociopath_. How very apt. But  _psychopath,_ on the other hand...it's almost...endearing." He turned towards Sherlock, eyes meeting his own, and his gaze sent a fizzle of something unknowing down his spine.

"How very interesting."

"You're very dismissive of me, Sherlock. Not interesting enough?"

"Just easy to read. I know everything I should."

"Which is?" he prompted. "I've heard of this...thing that you do."

"You've transferred here from a boarding school. Your parents are divorced, you live with your father. Father has a high pressure job, I'm assuming something in the government. He's usually not around. You were sent away from home for a reason; you wouldn't be coming back home to live with your father, for obvious reasons, so you're living with some other family member. You've been abroad recently, somewhere fancy, maybe Paris. Possibly with your mother. Possibly alone. Maybe it was an apology for keeping you locked up in boarding school. Also, you're probably gay."

Jim whistled.

"Please don't feel any need to tell me that was wonderful or amazing, John's expressed that thought in every variant available to the English language."

"John?"

And right on cue, someone cleared their throat from the door. Sherlock suddenly felt all the tension leave his body so completely that he almost slumped in his chair from the relief of it.

 _John_.

"Come in, Mr. Watson. Although I don't see the point in you attending class  _now._ " The class giggled.

John flushed, an attractive shade of pink, that made Sherlock wish that  _he_ could make him blush in that way. John nodded, stepping inside, immediately locking eyes with Sherlock, and he could literally feel the rest of the class melt away. His lips turned up in an automatic smile, genuinely  _happy_. John grinned back, until his eyes fell on Jim, and the smile melted, brow furrowing. He raised a questioning glance to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes in response.

Just then the bell rang, and their attentions were arrested for a moment, while Ms. Blunt packed up her things, and the students filed out. John made his way towards Sherlock then, the questioning look still on his face. Jim still lounged in his chair, watching the proceedings with almost gleeful interest. Sherlock stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, as John stopped at the desk. Sherlock quickly flicked his eyes down John's body, trying not to look too eager or lecherous, taking in the tousled, wet hair and the loosened tie, the school jumper that was carelessly tied around his rugby toned hips. He glanced towards Sherlock once, and then looked at Jim, who smiled back up at him politely.

"Uh," John mumbled. "I...don't think we've met. Are you new here?"

Jim stood up, shoving his books into his bags. "I assume you're John," he replied smoothly.

Sherlock felt sick. He didn't like the way Jim looked at John, he didn't like that John was standing so close to someone who Sherlock's mind had already labelled 'dangerous'. He wanted to get him out of here, away from this boy.

John raised his eyebrows, flicking his eyes back from Sherlock to Jim. "Yeah," he said uncertainly. "Sherlock told you?"

"Ah, yes. I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty." He smirked at John. "Charmed." Then he winked at Sherlock. "See you around, dear." Then he slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked away.

John stared after him, his face contorted with disgust and confusion.  _Good_.

" _D_ _ear_?" He repeated incredulously. "Who  _is_ he?"

Sherlock shrugged. "New student, I suppose." He swallowed thickly, looking down at John, suddenly feeling awkward, because the last time they had seen each other, John had literally fled from him. John seemed to realise that too, and he instinctively stepped back from Sherlock, as if to create some distance between them. That hurt a little, but still, it was better than running away. Besides, perhaps physical distance was a good thing. It would keep him from pouncing on John.

John looked away from him, biting his lip. Sherlock tried to not stare. "I don't like the look of him," John muttered, starting to walk out of class. Sherlock followed suit.

* * *

John did not need this.

It was difficult enough to not look at Sherlock, in all his messy haired, silver eyed, form-fitting jumper glory, and not recall the wank he'd had yesterday evening as soon as he came home to the privacy of his own room. To not remember his hands on his waist and his breath in his ear, and the fact that thinking about it would probably make him hard again. He needed to get it under control, because he could only imagine the look of horror on Sherlock's face if John were to announce to him that he would quite like to shag him into next week.

Shagging Sherlock. Appealing thought.

 _Don't think about it. Unless you want to get hard in the middle of a physics lesson_. Sherlock, as usual, wasn't in class, which was honestly a relief, because Sherlock would be able to deduce his erection in seconds.

And now John was driving himself crazy wondering if Sherlock was with Jim. Because he hadn't imagined it, had he? That cackle of electricity between the both of them, the atmosphere around them that was so heavy and charged with  _something_  that John couldn't quite place- that hungry, manic gleam in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock... and the curiosity in Sherlock's. Only a fool would have ignored it. He felt like puking, felt sickened at the thought of Sherlock being anywhere near that creep. And that of Sherlock being even remotely interested in him...ugh. No. Don't think like that. Sherlock couldn't  _possibly._

Sarah sat next to him, tapping her foot impatiently while Mr. Tenant lectured them on...pulleys. Yes, pulleys. Or levers. Long, cylindrical things.

"Guess what Jeanette asked me," Sarah whispered into his ear during class.

John turned to her, raising his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

She smirked at him. "She asked if we were dating."

John's eyes widened with horror, but he toned down the expression to one of polite interest. "Oh?" he asked stupidly.

"Yeah. I told we were. We are, aren't we?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. John felt slightly sick. How on earth could he have found her attractive? He didn't know how to reply, but on one hand...if Sherlock knew they were dating, maybe he wouldn't be suspicious of John's feelings. It would slow down the deductions a bit.

"Oh, er...yeah. Sure."

* * *

The school library may have been detestable, but there were certain advantages. It was quiet, and Sherlock needed silence to calm himself down. He was at the very back of the library, shielded from view by the large bookshelves, running his fingers down the volumes tightly wedged in.

_Boring, boring...boring..._

"You don't seem like the popular literature sort of bloke to me," a familiar drawl sounded. Sherlock turned around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the pale, dark haired boy standing at the other end, leaning against the opposite bookshelf. His lips quirked up in a smirk when Sherlock's gaze fell on him.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said in a low voice, taking in the neatly tucked shirt, the tightly knotted tie, the obsessively combed hair; and the gleam of malice in those eyes. Sherlock repressed a shudder, slightly unsure of what caused it. Jim walked up to him, standing a bit too close, so close that Sherlock could smell his cologne from six inches up. He plucked the book out of Sherlock's fingers, turning it over in his hand, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

" _Organic Chemistry,´_  he mused. Then, reached up and put it back in the shelf, unnecessarily brushing against Sherlock as he did so. Sherlock stiffened at the slight physical contact. "Boring. Too plain for that great big head of yours, don't you think?" He leaned his shoulder against the shelf, crossing his arms over his chest, raising a thin eyebrow and looking up at Sherlock from under his long eyelashes. He seemed to be made of porcelain, delicate, fragile, as if it were physical proof that all of Sherlock's deductions regarding him were wrong. He couldn't  _possibly_ be dangerous.

 _You don't need bulk to hurt_.

"Are you here to engage in small talk?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow back at him.

"I'm making friends," he cocked his head to one side. "Aren't I?"

"You're wasting your time," Sherlock inspected his fingernails carelessly. "I don't have friends."

Jim whistled. "What  _lies_ , Sherlock. Do you kiss John with that mouth?"

Sherlock bristled immediately. He kept his face impassive, guarded. Something told him that Jim wouldn't be easy to fool. And the less he knew about him and John, the better. Even hearing him say his name made him want to punch him across that delicate jaw.

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

Both his eyebrows went up, a condescending tilt to his lips. "I seem to have touched a nerve."

Sherlock's lip curled. He could easily crack his ribs right now, could bash his skull in, could do any number of highly unpleasant things. But he didn't, because he  _knew_ what he was trying to do. And he was...curious. Jim was a problem he needed to solve; not like John, John was like a birthday present that he wanted to unwrap, slowly and lazily and lovingly; Moriarty made his skin itch and his stomach turn, it made him want to clutch his hair in frustration because  _what made him tick?_

He leaned in closer to Moriarty, bending so he could look into those eyes. "What do you want?" he asked softly.

Jim giggled. "Oh honey, we both know what I want."

Sherlock pulled back, ignoring the roll of his stomach at his words. He felt the hair at the back of his neck stand to attention. "Stay away from me," He whispered menacingly, and walked out of the room. He wanted to warn him to stay away from John as well, but he didn't need to draw attention to their relationship. He would know if he tried to do anything to John. And, well, Jim wouldn't be stupid enough to try.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice anyone standing outside, which would have been unusual for him, but he was still seething, still thinking of that fucking smirk plastered on his face, as if he  _knew_ something Sherlock didn't- So he didn't notice the purposely outstretched leg outside the library door and tripped, sprawling spectacularly on his hands and knees to the floor. Pain flared in his chest and his knees, and he rolled over, hearing the sniggering from above. He looked up, resting on his elbows, eyes narrowing at the sight of Anderson and one of his friends, Carl Powers, he assumed- smirking down at him.

"Freak's too blind to notice where he's going," Anderson sniggered, and Sherlock didn't care, Sherlock didn't  _think_ , he just felt so fucking  _angry_ all of a sudden, he shot to his feet, and without preamble rammed his knuckles into Anderson's cheekbone.

Anderson staggered, clutching his jaw, and Sherlock was just massaging his stinging knuckles when Carl Powers shoved him roughly against the opposite wall with a snarl.

"Bloody freak," he spat, and pinned his elbow against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock struggled, trying to free himself of his grasp, he could feel the bony elbow digging into his windpipe- the bloke would crush it at this rate—

"Hey! Hey, get your hands off him!" suddenly someone shouted, and Sherlock would have recognized that voice anywhere.

John prised Carl away from him, giving him a rough shove on the chest so he staggered backwards. Sherlock took a great gulp of air, his knees buckling slightly. Relief flooded his lungs and his brain, and all his brain could manage to think was  _Thank God. John._

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he seethed. His voice was calm, cold, and bloody terrifying. If he was Powers, he would have run away.

"John—" Sherlock tried to say weakly, but his voice was all breathy and even he couldn't hear it, and John took no notice of it, continuing to stare down Powers. Sherlock was slightly worried John might punch him, because he got riled up easily, and the last thing he wanted was for him to get into trouble because of  _him._

"Ask your boyfriend," he sneered, pulling Anderson up from the ground. "Bloody psychopath—"

"Fuck off," John spat. "And don't you dare touch him again, do you hear me?"

"Or what?" Carl said, stepping closer to John. He was a few inches taller, but John had more muscle. Anderson realised things were getting heated, and he stood up, trying vainly to pull Carl back. The both of them were nose to nose, John glaring at Carl with his ice-cold eyes.

"Don't test me," John whispered.  _Bloody John Watson._

Anderson succeeded in pulling Carl away with a frightened whisper of, "Blake'll be here any moment, come  _on,"_ They stalked away then, Carl's narrowed eyes glaring at John the whole time.

John turned to Sherlock, then, his eyes still blazing. His expression turned to one of worry and he quickly moved towards him. Sherlock coughed weakly, clutching his throat, and John's warm hands gently pulled him away from the wall, thumping him on the back.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he breathed, as Sherlock leaned against him slightly. He was quite capable of walking without support, but the steadying hand on the small of his back felt bloody wonderful. John rubbed his back soothingly, still looking concerned. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"Your boyfriend's got a nasty temper."

The both of them turned around, to behold Jim Moriarty casually leaning against the door frame, smirking at the pair of them.

John tensed immediately. "You  _saw_  what happened?"

"Obviously. Quite a show." He delicately inspected his fingernails, the very picture of nonchalance, and Sherlock wanted to strangle him.

"Firstly, he's not my boyfriend, and secondly- you  _fucking bastard_ ," John spat, moving away from Sherlock and towards Jim. The sudden absence of contact made him feel cold, and then he saw John looking at Jim murderously and he felt a bit scared. John had quite a penchant for brawling, and he'd rather his best friend  _didn't_ end up in Blake's office. "You saw it and you didn't say anything? Are you mad?"

Jim didn't say anything, he just continued regarding him with the soft eyes and the cold smile. Then his eyes moved to Sherlock. "You've got your pet rather well trained."

"You bloody—"

"John," Sherlock warned, grabbing john's arm before he could wrap his fingers around Jim's throat. "He's not worth it. Come on."

John turned to him disbelievingly. "The smarmy—"

"I know." Sherlock said quietly, his gaze on Jim now. "Don't. It'll just make you feel worse. Come on."

Jim smirked, abut didn't say anything. Not until Sherlock had been successful in pulling John away from him and halfway down the corridor.

"The flirting isn't over, my dear!" he called after them.

* * *

When they were down a different corridor, and hopefully well away from Jim, John stopped, leaning against the wall, and took a deep shuddering breath. Sherlock watched him wearily as he pinched the bridge of his nose, like he often did when he was trying to control his temper. Sherlock  _hated it_ , he hated it when John was angry, and wound up, and what made him feel even angrier that Jim could  _so easily_ provoke John, when he had no fucking  _right_ to. John cracked his neck twice before opening his eyes, those dark blue eyes boring right into his own.

" _The flirting isn't over_?" he repeated, in a low voice.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know. And I don't care."

"He's deranged."

"Possibly."

John cracked a smile at that. "What did he want with you, anyway?"

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture. "I don't know, John. I don't want to talk about him." The hand gesture, however, involved flexing his fingers, and he realised that his knuckles were in agony. He made a hiss of pain, and gingerly brought his hand back, seeing the bruise blossoming on the pale skin for the first time.

"Oh, shit," John moved towards him instinctively, taking his hand gently in his own. He brushed a thumb over the knuckles, inspecting the marred skin. Sherlock watched John's expression, almost fascinated; it was extraordinary how John's face could change from glacial fury to deadly calm to gentle concern all in the space of five minutes. "Sherlock, what—"

"It's nothing," Sherlock quickly tried to retract his hand, but John wasn't having it. He gripped his wrist, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"You punched him. Anderson." John seemed to be trying very hard to hide a smile.

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Sherlock muttered.

Then John chuckled. "What it something he said? You don't get into fights." He kept his grip on his wrist, pulling him down the corridor, presumably to the washroom. Sherlock's mind could zoom into a number of possible reasons for this, but the most enticing ones were also the least probable. It was probably because John wanted to take care of the injury.  _Dull_.

"The usual. Should have ignored it. Usually do." John had finally brought the both of them to the loo. Bringing him over to the sink, he turned the tap on, and gently placed Sherlock's hand under the ice cold water. It hurt at first, and Sherlock hissed at the stinging sensation, but then it ceased and it felt much better. Trust John to make things better.

He was looking at him, concerned, now. "Why didn't you?" His voice was low, almost hesitant.

Sherlock looked at him, taking in the eyes, the careful line of his lips, the Adam's apple bobbing apprehensively in his throat. He shook his head. "I don't know. Anderson is an idiot, and so is Carl Powers. I don't care for either of them- but. I don't know," he closed the tap, leaning his hip against the cold porcelain, gazing at John.

"It's that psycopath. Moriarty or whatever," John was rummaging in his bag for something. "He winds you up. He makes you angry. Hardly anyone is capable of doing that. So why him?" he had finally found it- crepe bandages and a tube of some sort of ointment. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Do you carry that around with you?"

"Obviously. I'm best friends with a madman who doesn't know how to take care of himself. I have to be prepared for injuries. And don't change the subject." He pulled Sherlock's unresisting wrist towards him, squeezing out the medicine and massaging it onto his knuckles.

Sherlock watched John's fingers for a while, marvelling at how wonderful and amazing and absolutely brilliant John was, before answering. "He's smart," he replied simply. John looked at him then.

"Like you."

"Like—

"No, no, wait," John shook his head. "No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that." He started to unroll the bandages.

"John—"

"No, you're not like him. He's creepy and unhinged and you're not like that at all. So I'm sorry. He may be smart, but he's psychotic." John was gingerly wrapping the bandages around his hand now.

"People generally assume  _I'm_ the psychopath." Sherlock was trying to carry on the conversation while simultaneously trying to decipher the meaning of John's words in his head,  _he's creepy and unhinged and you're not like that at all_. Obviously. John, with his limited knowledge of Sherlock would naturally assume he was amazing and brilliant and all the things that he was not, even though he had a feeling that he  _was_ a bit like Jim. A disturbing thought, one that made him feel slightly nauseous; but one that for some reason, seemed very, very true. It would have to be examined later.

"They're wrong." John tightly bound the bandage together, finally letting go of Sherlock's hand.

"You're right," Sherlock smirked. "The correct term is  _high functioning sociopath_."

John looked slightly taken aback. "Sherlock, you're not a sociopath."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're the first one to say that. But I assure you, I am. I've been tested. Medically. Diagnosed. By experts."

Now it was John's turn to scoff. "Then they don't know shit. When were you tested?"

Sherlock shrugged. "When was I  _not_ tested? Mother and Father didn't think I was normal. So they had me tested. Over and over and over again. Enlarged brain capacity, high IQ, sociopathic tendencies, can't feel, can't cry. I didn't get jokes. I poisoned the cat. I wanted to keep dead frogs in the fridge. None of that was  _normal_."

Sherlock listed all the things that had been scribbled onto a medical report and shoved under his parent's noses. This was him; right to the tiniest particle. This was him, condensed and reduced to the basic facts that made him  _him_. A bare minimum that anyone needed to know before they went fleeing. And Sherlock could remember,  _god_ , he could remember. He could remember the harsh, bright lights and people in lab coats asking him questions,  _experimenting_ , like he was some sort of a lab rat. Poking him and prodding him until they told his parents and his brother that Sherlock wasn't capable of displaying any form of emotion.

John looked at him with an expression of horror, and Sherlock shut up immediately.  _Fuck_. He shouldn't have told him. Now John would run, like everyone else. Because that's what people did, didn't they? They realised he was different, and they didn't like it, and they made a run for it.

"Oh, god, Sherlock,  _no,"_ John breathed, and before Sherlock had any time to react, he had thrown his arms around his torso and was crushing his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Sherlock's senses were suddenly assaulted by John; the smell of him, the feel of him against his chest, and his fingers twitched with the need to wrap his own arms around him and press him even closer. He seemed to be literally drowning in him, because  _never- oh god-John_. This couldn't  _possibly-_

"You complete  _idiot_ ," John mumbled against his shoulder, hugging him even tighter. Sherlock closed his eyes to just relish the warmth of John's body against his own, the few layers of clothing that separated them- "You utter  _fool_ ," Then he pulled away, his hands were still lightly around his waist, but he was looking at Sherlock then, his eyes round and warm and a pink flush creeping up his cheeks. "Sherlock, that's not true.  _At all_. They're wrong, do you hear me? Your parents, the experts, I don't care, they're all idiots. They don't know you, I do. You are brilliant and warm and funny, and you're a bit crazy, but that's just a part of you. You are not a  _sociopath_ , for god's sake, of course you have feelings. Your parents are blind; they don't know how fantastic you are. Sherlock," John moved his hands from his hips to place them on either side of his face, his thumbs resting on his cheekbones, his eyes boring into his own. Sherlock's lips parted at the look on his face. "John-" he started.

"No, listen to me, you bastard. Stop this. Stop this right now. You are not some sort of cold robot that all those fools make you out to be, okay? I know you, and I've seen you, and you have feelings, and emotions, and all that other rubbish- they just haven't been special enough to be on the receiving end of it. This...this stops, now. I don't want you to think of yourself in this way. Okay? Sherlock, do you understand?"

"John, I-" he couldn't finish that sentence. His brain seemed to be working sluggishly slow, unable to comprehend just how  _much_ those words meant to him he could hardly believe them- no one,  _no one_ had ever said these things to him- and how could John? John was perfect, whole, unbroken, and he thought Sherlock,  _Sherlock,_ of all people—

"Sherlock tell me," John said gruffly.

"I- I understand," his voice shook.

John breathed a sigh of relief, his hands dropping from his face, looking at Sherlock like  _he had done the most brilliant_ thing possible, when clearly John was the one almost  _incandescent_  with brilliance. And at that moment Sherlock's non-existent heart seemed to swell with the very  _thought_  of John Watson, and his mental processes seemed to grind to a halt, he didn't think, he didn't stop; he simply leaned forward, tilted his head and pressed his lips firmly to John's.

John uttered a shrill squeak of shock, moving back slightly, but Sherlock paid no heed, bridging the temporary gap again and moving more insistently against John's lips; cradling the back of his head with one hand, his fingers resting in John's soft hair. He tasted  _wonderful_ , of tea and toast and  _John_ ; his lips were slightly chapped and wet, and utterly  _delicious_. He pushed him back against the cool tiled wall, pinning him there with his hips. John's initial surprise seemed to melt as he gingerly placed a hand around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer almost roughly, and Sherlock pressed his lips against John's harder, nibbling softly on the lower lip, and when John's lips parted under his inquisitive tongue, he explored the unchartered territory that was John's mouth. Sherlock's moved his hands down to John's waist to keep him shoved against the wall, and John's fingers at his neck tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair.

"Sherlock," John breathed against his lips, and his voice was breathy and husky and John was almost  _whimpering,_ and Sherlock couldn't help but rock his hips unconsciously against John's, all too aware of the growing hardness between his legs.

Everything around him seemed to pale into insignificance; Sherlock didn't care that this was  _wrong_  and John would never forgive him for this, that he was kissing John with a ceaseless abandon that was probably tearing apart the last shreds of their friendship; all he knew that he was snogging this gorgeous, brilliant blue eyed boy in a bathroom and in Sherlock's mind all he could concentrate on was how absolutely  _filthy_ that was, and it just turned him on even more, and he grinded against John even harder, eliciting a moan from John that was so bloody  _dirty_ that Sherlock catalogued it to be used for later purposes. Of a sexual nature.

And then suddenly, the ball rang, the shrill sound echoing off the cavernous walls of the bathroom, and John gasped under Sherlock's mouth, and putting his hands on his shoulders, pushed him away almost roughly as if he had been gripped by some sudden thought.

"Shit," he said through gritted teeth, covering his flushed face with his hands. "Shit, shit, shit," he repeated.

It took a while for Sherlock to realize his body wasn't pressed against John's anymore, there was a faint buzz in his ears and his lips were still tingling. Not to mention the uncomfortable ache in his groin. He had to blink several times before everything came into focus, and then he saw John, cursing furiously under his breath, picking up his bag from the floor; and suddenly Sherlock realised the utter  _idiocy_ of what he had just done.

"John," he said, his voice low. He seemed incapable of saying anything else, especially when John turned to look at him; and he saw John's swollen lips and bright eyes and the tousled hair- he looked messy and dirty and utterly  _gorgeous_. But then he saw the expression on his face, and his heart plummeted down to his stomach. Bloody hell, what had he  _done_?

He moved towards John, and John instinctively took a step back, holding up a hand. Sherlock froze, his blood running cold.  _No, no, no...John, please, no._ Obviously, obviously...now he had snogged John senseless and John had  _obviously_ not wanted it and he was probably afraid he would try to get hold of him again. Sherlock felt the heat rise in his cheeks.

"John," he said again, rather pathetically.

John shook his head, moving away from him. "No, don't," he said, his voice low. He was moving towards the door now. "I should get home."

"John, wait," Sherlock spluttered, running to fill the distance, and grabbing his wrist. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Let's just forget this, yeah?" John said, removing his wrist from Sherlock's grip. "I'll go home, and you'll go home, and tomorrow we'll forget this even happened." His voice was trembling, and he was pale.  _Fucking hell_.

 _He's still talking to me. He still wants to see me tomorrow. Good. Okay._ It was illogical to think that John would have wanted anything more, he had probably put up with him for the last five minutes to satisfy Sherlock's depraved desires; but he knew John wouldn't  _flee_ again. He couldn't, he  _wouldn't—_

"Hey," John said. His tone was a bit more gentle. "Don't worry about it, okay?" He moved his hand up as if to caress his cheek, but then thought better of it, and his hand fell to his side. He moved back, away from Sherlock, his back towards the corridor, his eyes still locked on Sherlock's "I'll er—see you—um—tomorrow. Bye." And then he turned around, and walked right out.

Sherlock didn't move for a few seconds, trying desperately to control the rising panic in his chest.  _It's okay. It's okay. He said he'll see you tomorrow. He'll be here tomorrow. It's okay._ But it was of no use. All he could think about was the feel of John's lips against his own, the warmth of his body; the way he practically  _moaned_ into his mouth—and then the way he had pushed him back, as if he couldn't bear his touch anymore.

Sherlock groaned, gripping his curls in frustration. Maybe he could just delete the entire encounter- yes, that seemed like a plausible thing to do. John wanted him to forget, so he would- anything for John. But—but if he never got to kiss John again, he didn't want to remove all memory of this one-especially if it was all he was like to have. No. Sherlock leaned against the wall, sliding down to the floor, breathing a bit more calmly. One more day, maybe, He'd keep it for one more day.

He really needed a cigarette.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for dubcon/noncon kissing

Mycroft had dealt with Sherlock enough to know when he should be worried. Now was one of those times.

And things had been going so  _well_. He thought John Watson had been a good influence on his brother; but he had been utterly blind, and hadn't realised just how  _dependent_ he had become on him. He knew John adored him, of course, you would be an idiot to not see that—but something had  _definitely_ happened and now he was worried.

Sherlock had been attending classes fairly regularly the past month or two. Ever since he had met John. He was, of course, an intelligent child and had no difficulty in his classes, his marks never dropped. And now he was holed up in his bedroom,  _asleep_. He had refused to go to school. It had been a very long time since Mycroft had been subject to his tantrums. But Sherlock had shouted and grumbled and grouched and thrown his things at anyone who tried to come into his room. In the end Mycroft gave up. His parents had given up much before that.

He tried speaking to him. It didn't work.

" _Sherlock?" he called softly, knocking on the door._

" _Go away!" he shouted back. His voice was scratchy and broke a bit in the middle of the sentence._

" _Why don't you open your door?"_

" _Why do you_ think _, you great big ponce?"_

_Mycroft sighed. Insults. Stellar start to a meaningful conversation. "Sherlock, it would be in your best interests to—"_

" _I'm not one of your stupid government clerks, Mycroft! I don't give a fuck about my best interests, and neither do you! So do yourself a favour and go away!"_

 _Cussing. A new development. This was out of the ordinary. Something really_ was  _wrong._

" _Is this something to do with John Watson?" he asked. Stupid question. Not your best line of questioning._

_Silence on the other end of the door. Bingo._

" _Open your door," Mycroft repeated._

" _No," was all Sherlock said. His voice had lost its forcefulness. "Please leave."_

_That had signalled the end of his attempt._

Mycroft sighed. He really needed to get back to work. But he didn't feel comfortable leaving Sherlock alone at home, in this state. It was usually now that he...he shook his head. No, he wouldn't. He knew that Mycroft would have no other choice but to send him off to rehab.

The doorbell rang.

Mycroft waited for Rogers to go and open it, and sure enough, he heard the sound of the door opening. Low voices. A knock came on the door of his study two minutes later.

"Sir," he said. "It's a friend of your brother's, sir." He called.

Oh, lovely. John. He could finally put an end to this madness. "Show him to the sitting room, and tell him to wait," he said, getting up and opening the door. Rogers nodded, scurrying downstairs to deliver the message.

* * *

But it was not John.

It was a different boy, frail-built, slender, dark- haired. He lounged comfortably in the arm chair, a polite smile plastered on to his face as he saw Mycroft enter. Something didn't seem right about him. Mycroft felt his scalp prickle.

"Good afternoon," he said. "And...you are?"

"Oh, good afternoon, sir," the boy said, getting up hurriedly. "I'm Jim, sir, Jim Moriarty. I'm one of Sherlock's friends."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Friend?" he asked, looking down at the boy. The boy smiled back, his soft brown gaze digging into Mycroft's. "How odd. He's never mentioned you."

"Oh, we just met yesterday. But he's such a great bloke. I was worried why he didn't come today. Thought I'd just pop in. May I?"

 _Great bloke_? This boy was very likely mistaken.

"Oh, yes, of course. Although he's locked his door and is rather adamant to meet anyone right now. But if you believe you will be able to get to him, please be my guest."

The boy grinned, a spark of something in his eyes that Mycroft couldn't place. "Thank you, sir."

* * *

Sherlock lay on his back on his seldom used bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It was stupid, really. Immature. Illogical. All of the things he detested. But he didn't trust himself anymore. He had tried to prevent himself from doing anything rash yesterday, and well. That had gone rather well, hadn't it?

And now he actually knew what John  _tasted_ like. And the urge to taste him again was...insatiable. He didn't know whether he'd be able to control himself if he saw him again, when all he wanted to do was pin him to the wall and snog the life out of him. Sherlock groaned, entangling his fingers in his hair. It had been exactly twenty five hours since he had seen John last, and he didn't know whether it was healthy to miss a person quite so much.

To  _want_ a person quite so much. Surely no one had ever wanted someone as much as he wanted John right now.

Someone rudely interrupted his thoughts by knocking on the door.

"What have I said about fucking off?" he screamed, throwing a book at the door. The door rattled with the force of  _Advanced Quantum Physics._

"My, my, what a temper."

Sherlock's blood froze.

 _What_ was he doing here? How  _dare_ he come here? He scrambled out of bed, not caring that he was just dressed in a pair of track pants and his hair was a mess. He threw the door open, keeping his expression carefully neutral. Jim stood in front of him, a smirk playing on his mouth.

"Afternoon," he drawled, his eyes raking Sherlock's torso. "Well, don't you look ravishing?" he smiled. He stepped closer to Sherlock, and Sherlock immediately stepped back. Jim took the opportunity of entering his room and shutting it shut with his foot. He leaned back against it, taking in Sherlock's dump of a room, his arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his uniform, so he had inevitably come here from school. Jim loosened his tie. "Lovely place you have here. Always knew you were one of the posh ones."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock finally seemed to find his voice. He felt exposed without his t-shirt, but he didn't want to draw attention to the fact. So he just stood straighter, on his guard. Like he usually was. Like he always had been, before John.

"Well, you didn't come today, did you? I missed you."

Sherlock snorted. "No you didn't. Look, I really don't want you here. Leave."

"Oh, you don't mean that, do you?" Jim stepped closer to him. He reached a hand up, brushing the back of Sherlock's cheek with his knuckles. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's exposed skin. He took a step back.

"I said leave," he said, but his voice didn't sound as forceful as he meant it to.

Jim probably noticed to, because he laughed. A condescending little laugh that made Sherlock want to strangle him. "Why don't you tell me why you bunked today instead?" he walked further into Sherlock's room, walking with a casual grace that seemed to be apart of him. He stood in front of Sherlock's crime board. He couldn't see his expression.

"None of your concern," Sherlock said, finally moving over to the side of his bed and pulling on a T-shirt.

Jim turned around, his eyes taking in the new garment. Sherlock noticed the knowing look, but Jim didn't say anything. Smirking, he said, "I believe it is. Come on. Go on. Tell me. Something to do with Little Johnny, is it? What happened, love? Trouble in paradise?" he finished the last part of the sentence with a sneer.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. God, he hated him so much. He was cruel. He was cruel for bringing that up. What did he  _want_ from him?

"Like I said, it's none of your concern."

"You look a mess. Come on. Let's go for a walk." Jim sauntered over to him, running his fingers over Sherlock's bed as he did so. He stood in front of him again, uncomfortably close. Sherlock stood his guard. The last thing he needed was Jim assuming he was afraid of him.

"Absolutely not," he replied, putting a palm on Jim's chest and pushing him back, gently, but firmly. "Take a walk yourself."

"Come off it. You want to come with me, you know you do."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why do you propose I would want to do that?"

Jim smiled knowingly. "Because you're bored. And you're curious. One of my favourite combinations."

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, studying Jim. The brown hair, now slightly tousled, sticking up in every direction over his head. The tie. The uniform. Why was it so impossible to deduce him? Bored. Curious. He was those things. But he was  _always_ bored and curious.

"You have a very opinion of yourself, don't you?"

Jim looked unperturbed by Sherlock's scornful tone. "No. But I have a high opinion of you. You won't disappoint me, will you?" He lifted a hand to run a finger down the side of Sherlock's throat. His heart rate doubled.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock grabbed Jim's wrist lightly and pushed it down. "I'm afraid you  _will_ be disappointed. Go. You're wasting your time."

"Oh  _please_. You're dying to come with me. And you know that I know. Come on, Sherlock, aren't you  _curious_? I can see it, you know. I can see it in the way your fingers twitch," he brushed a hand down Sherlock's arm. "I can see it in your  _eyes_. You're dying to see what makes...me... _tick_." He kept coming closer, with each word, until his face was a centimetre away from his own, his gaze on Sherlock's mouth, his own lips parting.

Sherlock moved away from him immediately, all too aware of the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, although it must be freezing outside.

"What are we going to do?" he asked, his voice sounding a bit strangled to his own ears.

Jim smiled, triumphantly. "Oh, nothing much. We'll just...talk," his gaze darkened at the word. "And smoke. You're dying for a fag, aren't you? You've been trying to cut down, haven't you? For John, I'm assuming. But I don't think John really cares, either way."

Sherlock felt his swollen throat and the moisture in his own eyes.  _You're not going to cry, are you? Stop it. Not in front of Jim, you idiot. That's what he wants. That's what he's trying to do. John likes you. He said so, remember? Come on. Don't listen to Jim. He's an idiot. He doesn't know John, you do._

Sherlock cracked his neck. "Very well. Let's go for this  _walk_." He leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing his coat.

He was curious, after all.

* * *

There was a little-frequented cemetery a few minutes away from Sherlock's neighbourhood. He knew it well, of course; there had been a murder there, two years ago. When Sherlock was a skinny fourteen year old and nobody took him seriously. They put the wrong man in jail, of course.

Jim took him there.

"Funny, isn't it?" Jim asked, taking out a cigarette from his pocket and handing him one. He lit his cigarette, before leaning in and lighting Sherlock's. "The way we bury our dead."

Sherlock inhaled the smoke, leaning against the yew tree that had been ever since he had come here the first time. He squinted at Jim. "Why is it funny?"

Jim trailed his fingers over a tombstone. "They're afraid of them, but they'll keep them. They'll bury them under layers of dirt, out of  _respect_. Getting smothered in mud isn't respect."

"Humans are stupid. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Oh, I have. I have. You think they're stupid too, don't you? I can see it in the way you look at everyone," he smirked, walking towards him and leaning against the tree next to him. "That  _disgust_ in your face. I understand. People are so  _slow_." He slid down the trunk of the tree, drawing his knees to his chest. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist to pull him down as well.

"And you're not?" he asked, removing his wrist from Jim's grasp as soon as he was sitting, his pyjama- clad legs stretched out in front of him.

"I would've thought you'd noticed it by now," Jim flicked some ash off the tip of his cigarette. "I noticed  _you_ , didn't I?"

"Everyone notices me," Sherlock said, his tone betraying more emotion than he wanted to let on.

The corner of Jim's lip twitched. "Yes, but not for the reasons you  _should_ be noticed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Jim? Why are we here?"

Jim turned his head towards him. "You should ask yourself that question." He drummed his pale fingers on Sherlock's knee. "You're not the only one who gets  _bored_."

Sherlock stared at those fingers, making circles on his thigh, taking liberties, taking risks,  _touching_. He should leave. He should go, tell Jim to fuck off and leave him alone. Why was he staying? Why was he still here?

"I'm sure there are better ways of satisfying your curiosity," Sherlock muttered, taking Jim's hand, to move it away, but Jim interlaced their fingers instead, forcefully.

"There are  _other_ ways, but there are no  _better_ ways, Sherlock," He lifted their entwined hands and brushed his lips against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock shuddered, trying to tug his hand away, but he wasn't trying hard enough.

"So that's what you think I am? A means to an end?" He finally succeeded in freeing himself from Jim's grasp.

Jim smirked. "You are  _so_ much more than that. You don't realise, do you? All the  _brilliant_ things you could do. You're so much  _smarter,_ Sherlock, so much  _better_. And yet you...you just let it go. You think John appreciates you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "Don't you dare." He was not allowed to talk about John. He had no  _right_.

He chuckled darkly. "You're so  _sensitive_ about your little pet. You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you? But  _him_ , I don't know," he studied his fingers nonchalantly.

"Shut up," Sherlock repeated, his voice betraying the faintest hint of a tremble.

"You're in love with him." he turned to him, smirking. Sherlock felt the back of his throat swell, his heart rate increasing. "He's pretty, I'll grant you that. Sure love the rugby boys."

"Don't talk about him like that," he snapped, standing up. "And it's  _none of your_ fucking _business_."

Jim stood up too, standing in front of him, stepping close so he was slightly trapped. He could overpower him, he was taller. And yet...

"It's my business if you're not appreciated, Sherlock," Jim whispered, reaching up to brush his thumb against Sherlock's cheekbone. "Don't you think you deserve better?" He stepped closer, so there was hardly any distance between them. He reached up to cup the nape of Sherlock's neck.

_Get out. Run. Run. Get away from him._

"John isn't any of your concern," he said, his voice far too low and far too soft.

"True. He isn't. But you are," he pulled his neck forward, so he could reach up, his lips too close to Sherlock's mouth to be innocent anymore.

"Jim—" Sherlock started, putting a hand lightly on his chest. Jim smirked, moving forward. His lips pressed against Sherlock's, his tongue skirting out to flick against his bottom lip, and he was about to deepen it, when Sherlock pushed him back with both hands.

Jim stumbled.

Sherlock moved away from the tree, away from Jim, feeling like he was about to be sick. He rubbed his hand over his lips forcefully, like that would wash away the ghost of Jim's touch.

"I'm not that bad, you know," he said, leaning against the tree, looking at Sherlock with amusement.

"You're...you're  _pathetic,"_ Sherlock spat. "Fuck off. Go away. And don't come near John, or you'll regret it."

Jim laughed, throwing his head back, peels of mirth issuing from his lips. "So  _protective_. He doesn't care about you, Sherlock. He doesn't  _understand_ you. Not like I do. Not like I could. I—"

"No," Sherlock said, holding up a finger. "No, you don't get to talk about him. Bye. Thanks for the cigarette."

He turned around, making his way towards the gate, not looking back, just walking quickly, trying to get as far as he could form Jim and the guilt and the filthy feeling on his mouth.

But he couldn't. Jim didn't follow him, so when he reached the gate and stepped out, he was still alone. He leaned against the stone wall, thankful for the mostly empty street, and took a shaky breath. What had he  _done_? He ran his fingers over his lips again, where he felt like he could still feel Jim clinging to them. He felt dirty, he felt  _soiled._  He wanted to wash his mouth out with detergent, salt water, acid, anything that would wash away that filthy feeling. What would John say? Oh  _John..._ if he hadn't ruined their friendship before, well. He had definitely done that now.

He wanted to go home.

He turned around, walking, reaching a hand up to rub his eyes, where moisture was threatening to spill out. He couldn't...not because of  _Jim_. That psychotic, conniving  _bastard._

* * *

When he came home, his parents were out, and Mycroft's car wasn't in the garage, so he must be at work too. Yet something told him that  _someone_ was home.

"Rogers?" He called, stepping into the living room. The butler came out from the kitchen.

"Ah, yes, Master Holmes. Miss. Adler is here to see you. I sent her to your room."

"Why is she in my room? You could have put her here, where the  _guests_ sit," he replied irritably, but making his way upstairs instead. He was sort of glad Irene was here. He had no idea why, it was almost seven, and Irene was usually out with her boyfriends/girlfriends at that point of time. Nevertheless, he could tell her about Jim. He needed to tell  _someone_ about that sordid accident in the cemetery. She would be able to provide perspective, she always was.

He ran up the stairs, two at a time, throwing open his door.

Irene was sitting cross legged on his blue rug, her head in her hands, sobbing.

_She's crying. She's definitely crying. Okay. Think carefully. What do people do in these situations? Hot beverage? No, ask her why she's crying first. What if she doesn't say anything? You're supposed to comfort her. Yes, but how? Embracing is the most common means of comfort. Okay. I can do that. I'll...embrace her? Hopefully she won't slap me. Irene slaps people when she's angry._

He stepped in quietly, shutting the door behind him carefully. Irene heard the noise, and she looked up. She looked terrible. Her usually perfect hair was falling apart, strands framing her swollen, tear-stained face. Her lips were dry and cracked. She looked far too pale. Sherlock was worried now. Surely someone hadn't died?  _Oh, is it a murder? Wait. No. Stop it. She'll slap you_.

"Irene?" he asked, stepping closer to her, sitting down in next to her, crossing his legs like her. "Why are you crying?"

 _Good start_.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry," she wailed. "I shouldn't have—but I didn't know who else to—I just couldn't—" she promptly fell to tears again.

"Er...it's...alright," he said, patting her back awkwardly. "Do you...want to talk about it?"

"It's...Peter," she finally chocked out, getting the name out with difficulty.

_Peter. 25 years old. Son of the one of the ministers in the House of Commons. Substandard student. Went to Oxford, (because of his father) just passed out. Didn't amount to much. Conventionally handsome and rich. Irene's type. She's crying. Dead? Or Broken Up? Not good. What was he supposed to do? He had warned her about him. Should he—no, reminding her of that was a terrible idea._

"Is he...dead?" he asked, rather hopefully.

Irene gave a short, bitter laugh.  _She's laughing. So I'm doing a good job of comforting her? No. Wait. It was sarcastic. Not doing a good job at all._

"I wish he was," she said, venomously.

"So...he's not dead."

"He cheated on me," she said dully. "He... _cheated_ on me." Then her face crumpled and she started sobbing again. "I thought—I actually thought I was in love with him," her words were slurring now, becoming incoherent, with the force of her sobs.

Sherlock awkwardly put an arm around her, supposing that this was an acceptable thing to do. He cared for Irene, he really did. She had been one of his only...friends...before John, and he didn't like seeing her hurt like this. Stupid sodding Peter.

Irene pressed herself closer to Sherlock, burying her face in his side, wrapping an arm around his torso. "I really thought...I really thought that it would be different. That  _he_ was different."

"It's...alright," he said, unsure of what else to say. He wasn't liking the physical contact very much either, but that couldn't be helped.

"I'm sorry I'm bothering you. Where were you? Why are you still in your pyjamas?" she sniffed.

"I—never mind."

"I wish boys were more like you," she gave watery laugh.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Surely you're joking."

She giggled again.  _Good sign_. "No, I mean, you'd never...cheat on me. If you didn't fancy me that way, you would have told me."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "True. And you're better off without him. He's an insufferable twat. So dull."

Irene fiddled with the lapels of his coat. "I've always wondered. You know. What it to be like...to be with you. In that way."

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "Er...I'm not...you know I'm not..." he babbled.

"Yeah, I know. You'd never be interested in me. It's different. Usually every other boy I meet wants to fuck me. But you're...you've never been like that. That was one of the main reasons I liked you so much."

_She's distraught. She doesn't know what she's saying. Don't send her away yet._

"Well, now you know...that—er—I'm sure you'll find someone."

" _Someone,"_ she lifted her eyes to look at him. Or rather his mouth. "But not you," she bit her lip. "You would be nice."

"Irene, I—"

But she silenced him with her lips.

* * *

John fiddled with the stupid bowtie for the umpteenth time.

What was he even  _doing_? This entire situation was ridiculous. He didn't want to go. At all. But he had promised Sarah, and only wankers would ditch a girl on the day of a dance.

But he felt so terrible. He sat on the edge of his bed, covering his face with his hands. This had been the worst day of his life. Yesterday had possibly been worse.

Sherlock had  _kissed_ him. Actually  _kissed_ him. On his mouth. With his lips. He brought a hand up to touch his lips, remembering the feel of those lips against his, how perfectly they had fit together. How Sherlock had pushed him against the wall like that, his tongue in his mouth, his hands on his hips, the clear evidence of his arousal digging between his legs...

And he had run away.

He had actually  _fled_ , when he had wanted nothing other than kissing Sherlock back with all the ferocity and longing that he deserved. He was a coward, he really was. But he was so  _scared_. Of losing Sherlock. Wasn't it better to remain friends, with the comfort of knowing that Sherlock would always be there, than being with him in  _that_ way, the threat of him leaving him hanging over them? It was unthinkable. He couldn't bear imagining what it would be like for them, Sherlock feeling too awkward to talk to him properly anymore.

And yet he couldn't go on like this. Denying himself the one thing he really, really wanted. The person he wanted in a way he had never wanted anyone before. Sherlock hadn't even come to school today. The guilt in John's stomach threatened to spill out of his mouth like vomit, and he had to swallow to drive it back in. Had he really hurt Sherlock that much? Of course he had. And after everything he had told him, about his childhood. John had rejected him like everyone else. He felt disgusted with himself.

He needed to see him. He was going to go right now and tell him that he was sorry and he wanted him and he would quite like to kiss him again, and this time he'd kiss him for as long as he liked and he wouldn't run, never again. He'd kiss him long and deep and slow, just like he deserved.

Sarah would understand right?

He pulled on the blazer and the scarf because it was cold outside, and ran down the stairs, two at a time. But his mother was just coming up.

"John!" she exclaimed. "Where are you running off to? I was about to call you. Sarah's here."

John's eyes widened. "Sarah?" he asked, weakly.

"Yeah, hi," she waved to him from the door. She was dressed in a blue dress and a jacket, clearly ready to go.

"You're...here?" he asked, coming down slowly.

"Yeah, I was passing your house and I thought I'd pick you up. Is that a problem?" she raised an eyebrow.

He was in front of her now.  _Of course it's a bloody problem. But I am going to fix this, and I don't care what you think_.

"Oh, no. Not at all." He checked his watch. Six-thirty. He gave Sarah one of his most charming smiles. The smile he used on girls when he actually wanted to get it on with them. "You don't mind if we stop somewhere along the way, do you?"

* * *

Sarah brought the car to a halt in front of Sherlock's house.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Just give me a minute, yeah?" he asked, stepping out. "I'll just be a minute." Then he leaned forward and kissed her quickly.  _If she didn't hate you before, she's definitely going to hate you now_.

She blushed, and smiled shyly. "Okay, but don't be long."

"Of course," he gave her another charming smile and shut the door. Then he ran as fast as he could, hammering on the door. He only realised he could have just as easily rung the bell when Rogers opened the door.

"Mr. Watson," he said, surprised. "What can I—"

"No time to chat, Rog!" John called, pushing him aside and running across the living room and up the staircase.

* * *

Sherlock broke away from her as soon as he heard someone bang the door open. The kiss had lasted roughly for seven seconds. He should have pushed her away before.

He turned to the door to see who it was.

John.

The first thing he noticed, of course, was that John was wearing a suit and he looked utterly...well...he looked  _hot._  His mind sort of went blank.

"Am I...interrupting something?" John asked. His voice was quiet. And polite. Far too polite.  _Shit._

"No, no, no," Sherlock said quickly, because he just realised what John must have deduced from the scene. But he couldn't think...not  _Irene_ of all people? John wouldn't think that, would he?

_Why was everyone so bent on kissing him today?! Why wouldn't anyone leave him alone, god damn it? Why couldn't John be the person he had kissed instead?_

"My apologies," John said, his voice almost a whisper. He had gone pale, and his fingers were shaking.

Irene didn't say anything, her hands were clamped around her mouth, and  _she wasn't saying anything_.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet, crossing the length of the room in three quick strides to stand in front of John.

And there it was again, that urge to grab his face and kiss him until he was gasping for air. John held up a hand, and it reminded him so much of yesterday that he felt his feet go cold.

"This was a mistake," John said. "I'm sorry."

"No, John, it's not what you—" couldn't he  _see_? How could he be so utterly  _blind_? Sherlock loved  _him_ , god damn it, did he actually believe-?

"Sarah's waiting downstairs. I'll go. Bye." Then he turned around, and ran down the stairs.

And Sherlock didn't do anything, he just stood there, frozen in spot, his lips sealed, his feet rooted to the ground, he didn't stop John. He just kept thinking about the fact that he had just realised he was in love with John Watson, and that he had kissed two people today, none of whom were John Watson. And that made today a very terrible day indeed. And John thought...John obviously thought he fancied Irene. Should he go? Should he follow him? But John must be gone by now. With Sarah.

"Sherlock," Irene finally found her voice. It was shaking. "Go after him."

His voice shook as he said the next words. "I hate you."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially where this fic earns its 'E' rating. Enjoy.

John hadn't waited. Maybe he should have, listened to Sherlock's explanation, but really, what could he have possibly said? And if Sherlock really had anything to  _explain_ , he would have followed him, right? He was half hoping that he would run after him, grab his wrist and tell him what a big misunderstanding it all was. But he didn't.

So he ran down, ran outside, and flung open the door of Sarah's car, tumbling inside it. "Drive," he snapped at Sarah.

She raised her eyebrows at him, but wisely chose to say nothing.

It was difficult to control his breathing on the way to school, to wash away that image of Sherlock kissing Irene that was now branded into his brain. But really, could he blame him? John had rejected Sherlock. He was in his own right to do what he pleased with whoever he pleased. But still. It hurt.

God, it hurt so much. He could physically feel that dull ache in his breastbone, the jealousy that was twisting his gut into knots. The thought of  _Irene_ , beautiful, perfect, elegant Irene, with beautiful, perfect, elegant Sherlock; come on, what chance did he have against  _that_?

It was not easy hiding those feelings with Sarah, and he knew that it was going to be a nightmare dancing with her tonight when he didn't want anyone else but Sherlock. And Sherlock, well. John had had his chance, and he had thrown it away, because he was an idiot. He smiled faintly thinking of how Sherlock would agree whole heartedly to that. He wondered if they would ever be able to get to that playful banter again, because it would be one hell of a task to hide his feelings  _now._

Sarah's car pulled up in front of school.

He got out of the car and opened the door for her, because, well, he didn't really dislike Sarah, and he wasn't going to be a douche and ignore her the whole evening. It was cold, so he put an arm around her, and she seemed to like that; the only problem being that John couldn't stop thinking about how it would feel to touch Sherlock in that way.

"So, I take it Sherlock isn't going to come?" Sarah asked, linking her arm with John's. They walked up the stone steps, where other couples were lounging, waiting for the festivities to begin in earnest.

"Ah, no. I didn't really expect him to," he didn't want to talk about him. It  _hurt_.

"Well, he had no dearth of dates," Sarah sniffed. "It's not your fault."

Oh yes. Sherlock definitely did  _not_ have a dearth of people waiting to get a leg up on him.

"Yeah," he mumbled. He took Sarah to the Hall, where loud music was playing. Christmas decorations were hung up around the huge room, tables lined the walls with food and soda. It looked exactly like the kind of place Sherlock would have absolutely  _detested._ John couldn't help but smile at that.

"Come on," Sarah said. "Let's dance."

John tried to be nice, he really did. He listened to all of Sarah's stories, and he held her while they danced, and he even kissed her back when she kissed him. He hated it and he hated it and god he wanted to be anywhere but here.

He could see Anderson and Donavan in the corner, and Carl Powers with some busty blonde, Sherlock would have called her 'vapid', and Victor Trevor and Henry, not dancing, but in the corner, drinking soda, rather close together, and they certainly didn't seem to have any other dates...hmm...he hadn't thought of that, Sherlock would have much to say on that matter...and all those other happy couples dancing and having  _fun_ and being with someone they wanted to be with. It made that jealousy flare up in the pit of his stomach again, and that longing just wouldn't stop.

"John, are you alright?" Sarah asked.

"What?" his eyes widened. "Oh, yeah, yeah," and he twirled her around a bit so she would shut up.

And suddenly, there it was.

That fission, that spark of  _something_ , a prickle in his scalp. His body seem to have attuned itself to Sherlock's presence. He had barely enough time to turn around to see if he was just imagining it, when a lithe, slender figure suddenly presented itself to the both of them, walking right up, and it seemed like he made them stop dancing with the sheer force of his will.

Holy shit. He was  _here_.

"Hello, Sarah," he said coolly, but then he turned his gaze back to John. It was hard, a bit harsh, and fucking _hot_. His hair was tousled like he had been running his fingers through it incessantly; it stuck up in every direction. He was wearing a pair of ratty jeans under the grey T-shirt he usually wore when he slept (yes, John remembered that), and there was an unmistakable whiff of cigarette smoke. He decided to address that later.

"John, may I have a word with you?" he raised an eyebrow. His voice sliced through the air like a knife. That wasn't a question, or a request. It was a bloody  _order_. John's mouth dried.

"Uh—"

"Um, excuse, he's my date?" Sarah said defensively, her grip tightening on John's bicep.

By this time, most of the Hall had gone quiet, because really, Sherlock Holmes had just barged in, in his messy hair and his sexy coat and  _why couldn't John stop noticing that_? But yes. People were interested.

"I'm very well aware of that, thank you," Sherlock snapped, rather harshly.

"Yes, yes," John said, almost fervently. "Sarah, just give us a minute, please?" he kept his gaze locked on Sherlock as he said that. Sherlock looked back at him almost intensely, something in those silver eyes he couldn't quite place. All he knew was that with the way he was looking at him, it was highly probable he was going to get a rock- hard erection in the middle of the Hall so it would be safe to leave  _now_.

Sherlock didn't wait for Sarah's answer. He grabbed John's arm, ripped him away from Sarah's grasp, and dragged him across the length of the hall. John didn't seem to be able to resist it, and everyone was staring at the scene that unfolded in front of them like a well-rehearsed drama.

"Sherlock, what—" John started to say, but Sherlock interrupted him with a quick, "John, shut up for a moment."

He dragged him halfway down the corridor, then he stopped for a second in front of a door, and kicked it open with his foot. The door wasn't locked, but he heard the sound of something splintering and he knew that Sherlock had definitely broken something. He knew that something was very, very wrong, but the only problem was that he was finding it difficult to concentrate on why that may be when Sherlock looked fucking  _pissed._

He only had time to notice that it was an empty classroom, and that Sherlock had just locked the door, when he pushed him roughly against it, pinning his wrists above his head.

Every coherent thought vanished from his head.

All he was aware of was Sherlock's in front of him, everywhere, eclipsing every other little thing into nothingness, because here Sherlock was, large as life and fucking hot and John could not think of anything past how hard he was by now. Fuck, he could feel his heart hammering against his chest, frantically. It was so goddamn loud that he was sure Sherlock could hear it too.

"Sherlock—" he slurred, barely able to comprehend what was happening, because Sherlock Holmes had him shoved up against the wall, one knee between his legs, and his body was pressed up against his in ways that were going to result in—yep. There it was. His cock strained against the front of his trousers immediately.

"How many times have you kissed Sarah, John?" Sherlock's icy gaze dug into John's, his hands almost painful against his wrists. His voice was low, husky, an undercurrent of something almost _menacing_. John had never heard him sound like that before. And John should have been a bit scared at that tone, because Sherlock looked like he was barely holding on to the last vestiges of his self control. Yet John found himself panting and damp and sweaty when Sherlock had barely touched him.

"W-what?" he asked.

"How...many...times...have you...kissed...Sarah?" he leaned in closer so he could whisper the sentence in John's ear, his breath warm against the skin, sending delicious shivers down his spine and causing his cock to twitch involuntarily against Sherlock's denim- clad thigh. He spoke slowly, almost patronizingly, as if he was talking to a toddler.

"I don't—I don't know," John answered pathetically.

"I'll tell you how many times," Sherlock literally growled, nipping John's earlobe. John had to bite his lips to hold back the moan that threatened to slip out.

"Sh—"

"A lot of times, John. A  _lot_ of  _fucking_ times," Sherlock pressed himself closer to John, his hips grinding against him, the undeniable erection pressed against John's stomach. He shivered.

"And you know the funny part? You don't even  _like_ her," his lips made a slow trail down John's ear to his jaw line, skimming across the skin to reach the corner of his mouth. John could barely restrain himself from turning his head to press his lips against Sherlock's, but he moved away, pinning John with his gaze. His lips were parted, and John could  _see_ the side of his throat subtly pulsing with the rapidity of his heartbeat. Sherlock was aroused, very much so, and John could think of a million ways to take care of that.

"And you think that I would...with _Irene,_  of all people," he whispered, bringing his face close enough so that his lips brushed against his forehead. "How could you think that?"

"Because you—I saw you—" John mumbled incoherently. It was a bit difficult to string together a sentence when he had to concentrate on not rocking his hips against Sherlock's erection. He felt almost dizzy with the stifling proximity, his body pressed flush against Sherlock's taller frame, the back of his neck damp with sweat; his entire body almost trembling with the need to blindly rut itself against him.

"Yes, John,  _she_ kissed  _me_." He sighed, his breath playing over John's face, warm and muggy, and he leaned his forehead against John, loosening his grip on his wrists slightly, but not enough for John to be able to move them. His arms were a bit sore, but he didn't move—he couldn't move, he felt as if he had been trapped in that position, pinned there with the sheer force of Sherlock's will.

"If you're so  _jealous_ ," Sherlock murmured, his lips moving down, down John's nose, down to his mouth where it brushed teasingly against the skin. "Then why do you keep fleeing from me?"

"I'm not...not jealous," John said shakily, his lips parting under Sherlock's mouth.  _Kiss me_ , he thought.  _Fucking Christ, Sherlock, kiss me._ His entire body was still, every muscle taunt and quivering with blind, aching, painful  _need._

Sherlock leaned away from John, smirking. Oh god, that bloody  _smirk_ again.

"Oh, John,  _please_ ," Sherlock drawled, "Let's not play this game." he removed his hands from John's wrists, only to place one of them at his nape and the other on his hip, his thumb digging rather possessively and painfully against his hip bone. John longed to card his fingers through that luscious mop of hair, but he felt like any movement on his part would shatter the slow, seductive game that Sherlock was playing with him. And he wanted every moment of it.

"You think I'm such an  _idiot_ , John Watson," Sherlock breathed against his neck, "I can practically hear you heart hammering from here." He placed his lips on John's throat, against his pulse, his tongue darting out to flick against the spot. He gave it a swift bite, grazing his teeth against the skin, wrenching a whimpery gasp from John's lips, as he helplessly arched his back into Sherlock's touch, against the bulge in his pants. "And the  _noises_ you're making, John," Sherlock literally purred, running his lips up the expanse of John's throat, resting at his mouth again.

"I'm—"

"And sometimes, when you look at me, you lick your lips," Sherlock pressed his lips lightly against John's, not kissing him, but slowly skimming his tongue across his bottom lip. John involuntarily parted his lips to let Sherlock in, but he had leaned away from him before he could do anything else. "And fuck, your pupils are  _enormous_ , John," he smirked again. He shifted his hand to cup the side of his throat, his thumb brushing against his bottom lip. "And let's not forget  _this,"_ he gyrated his hips obscenely against John's, the friction of their twin erections nearly blowing John's brain to smithereens. " _This_ is undeniable evidence."

"Sherlock,  _please,_ I can't—" John sputtered incoherently.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock smiled crookedly. "And I've been waiting for  _weeks_ , John. I can read your body like a book, I've always been able to," he bent forward to press his lips to his forehead. "When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And evidence states that you want me. And you know I want you.  _Desperately_." He cradled John's face with both hands, lifting it up so he could look down into his eyes, the intensity of his gaze sending a fizzle down his spine right up to the tip of his very erect cock. "So tell me," he bent down closer, until their lips were a hair's breadth away. John felt himself go limp, barely able to remain upright against the door. "Do you want me to kiss you or not?"

"Oh, god, yes," John gasped, and Sherlock didn't waste a second.

He smashed his lips against John's, warm and wet and soft, and the kiss escalated quickly into something animalistic, it was bruising, hard, as if Sherlock was staking a claim on John, saying  _mine._ His lips moved almost frantically, his hands pinning John's hips against the wall painfully, and John responded in kind, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing himself to his body until there was nothing separating them except the fabric of their clothing. And it still seemed like too much.

It was  _electric._

It was everything he'd dreamed of, in those dark, sinful nights when he'd wake up gasping and sweating, wondering where on earth those thoughts had come from. Sherlock tasted better that he did in all of his filthy, pornographic fantasies, he tasted like smoke and desire and danger. John gripped his shoulders tightly, as if to anchor himself to Sherlock, because surely,  _surely_ it was impossible for a kiss to feel so good, and his heart beat like a frantic tattoo, and oh god he  _wanted_ him so much it could grind his bones to dust.

Sherlock deepened the kiss further, his skilful tongue assaulting John's mouth, his teeth grazing his lower lip and tugging on it. John moaned, his knees buckling from all that fucking  _heat_ , but Sherlock wrapped an arm tightly around his waist and kept him standing. His own tongue twisted and pulled around Sherlock's, revelling in the warm slickness of it. John thrusted against Sherlock's hips, eliciting a deep growl from his throat that was so  _hot_ that it almost sent him over the edge.

"Fuck," Sherlock said, his deep voice ragged with arousal, feverish lips tracing a line down John's chin and jaw to the taunt skin on his neck, latching his mouth over his pulse, sucking. John threw his head back so hard that it banged painfully against the wall, but that didn't stop the mewl that escaped his lips. "John Watson you are such a  _tease_ ," Sherlock muttered, his tongue and teeth and lips continuing their slow torture on John's throat.

"I'm...the...tease?" John gasped, reaching a hand up to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's untidy locks, tugging on them until Sherlock whimpered.

" _Bloody hell_ , John," Sherlock hastily shrugged out of his coat, and wrenched John's blazer off his shoulders and threw it behind him where it joined Sherlock's coat on the floor. Then his lips moved to John's mouth again, prising them open forcefully, his tongue working its way inside, and John didn't think he ever had a chance against that sinful mouth. He put his hands on Sherlock's slender waist, those narrow hips that John had been  _aching_ to touch and wrap his arms around. Slipping his hands under the hem of his T-shirt, he ran his hands over the flat lines of his abdomen and chest, Sherlock's skin hot and flushed under his touch. He gasped against his lips as John raked his fingers across his naked back.

" _John,"_ Sherlock groaned again, as he rubbed himself against John's straining cock. And the way he said his name, wanton and trembling with ill- repressed greed, could have made John come if he wasn't so determined to not do it in his pants.

Sherlock had other plans, though.

He dexterously slipped a hand between their bodies, and began to fiddle with John's zipper. The touch sent electricity arching down the entirety of his body, and that wrenching  _desire_ literally ignited his blood.  _Sherlock. There._ Oh god.

"Sher—" John started, but he quickly silenced him with another kiss.

"Shh," he whispered. He succeeded in tugging down the zipper with one hand while the other hand kept his squirming hips pinned against the wall. He made quick work of the buttons on John's boxers, and his erection sprung free, slick and hard with arousal.

"Oh fuck," John groaned again, as Sherlock wasted no time in wrapping a hand around it, those bloody fingers working magic.

John's breath came in erratic gasps and whimpery variations of Sherlock's name that seemed to turn him on even more, because the hand moved furiously over John's shaft, moving up and down his sex skilfully. John threw his back with a groan, rolling his hips against Sherlock's hand blindly, his movements un coordinated and unsteady with the amount of desperate  _need_ coiling in the pit of his stomach, flaming and hungry and ravenous for Sherlock's touch.

"Oh god- oh f-  _Sherlock,"_ his hissed, his fingers tightening in Sherlock's hair, pulling and twisting as his movements grew more urgent, his body losing control with every jerk of his hips.

"Come for me," Sherlock whispered in his ear.

John had already been horny as hell ever since Sherlock had touched him in the hall, and that rough  _command_ uttered in Sherlock's usually cultured mouth, sent him right over the edge as he gave a sudden jolt of wild pleasure, coming all over Sherlock's slender fingers.

" _Sherlock_!" he cried, his chest rising and falling rapidly as his body spasmed and rocked with the force of his orgasm.

"John,  _John,"_ Sherlock whispered back, burying his face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply as John himself half- collapsed onto his shoulder, his body trembling from the aftershocks of one fucking good climax.

"That was...that...was..." John couldn't get much out, he seemed to have lost his voice. He gripped Sherlock's shoulders. Hard.

"Brilliant? Amazing? Fantastic?" Sherlock lifted his head so he could look at him, and he grinned, and it was so adorable and self-satisfied that John couldn't help but kiss him again, clumsily knocking his lips against his mouth. Sherlock made an approving noise and he kissed him back, softer this time, almost sweetly, his hands curling at the back of his head. His lips moved slowly, taking time to address each inch of John's mouth.

Then he pulled away, leaning his forehead against John's, panting heavily. And that was when John realised that Sherlock's arousal was still digging into his still exposed cock, and he flushed. How selfish of him. "Sherlock," he whispered. "Sorry, should I—"

"No," Sherlock said, with some finality, pinning the wrist that John had lifted against the wall. "No quid pro quo. Calm down."

"But I—"

"Trust me, John. There will be many more opportunities for you to wank me. Countless opportunities, if I'm allowed to have my way," he pressed a quick, chase kiss to John's lips, his hands moving to John's boxers to button them and quickly zip up his trousers. "For now, however," he smirked. "I think we should notify your... _date_."

John went scarlet. "Oh my god," he groaned, covering his face with his hand. "Oh my god we did it in an empty classroom."

"Ye-es," Sherlock replied slowly, peeling himself away from him. "But you look fine. I'm the one who has your ejaculate all over my pants," to emphasize the point he wiped his sticky hand on his jeans. "Glad I brought my coat."

John's eyes widened at the stained denim. "Oh dear god," he wailed. "How do we go out like this?" He looked down at his own trousers, which were thankfully black, so they hid most of it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be overdramatic, John," he bent down to retrieve his coat, throwing it over his shoulders. "You look  _fine_." He picked up John's blazer from the floor. "Turn around."

John obeyed, letting Sherlock put his blazer on for him. He brushed a kiss against his nape as he fixed the collar from behind. Then he grabbed his shoulders, turning him around. He smiled mischievously. "There. See? Good as new. You don't look like you've been snogging anyone at all." He doubted that. Sherlock himself looked ravaged. His hair was a complete mess and his eyes were far too bright and his lips were red and bruised, and he really wanted to kiss him again.

"Just snogging?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Let's not get into the  _technicalities_ , John," Sherlock drawled, opening the door and poking his head outside to make sure no one was in the hallway. "Come on."

John really wanted to hold Sherlock's hand, because he realised that he was  _allowed_ to do that now, and he could pretty much touch Sherlock whenever he wanted, and he was going to make use of that privilege now, in all sorts of filthy ways.

And while that was a delightful prospect, he still needed to tell Sarah this new development. However, when they walked inside the Hall, Sarah wasn't sitting alone and moping like John had expected.

" _Carl Powers_?" John said, incredulously.

"Mmm," Sherlock muttered, his eyes scanning the dance floor. "Such impeccable taste. I see now why you liked her so much."

John shot Sherlock a withering look, which shut him up.

"Well, she looks fine. Dancing away." John ran a hand through his hair. "I don't think we should disturb her."

"You're right," Sherlock agreed solemnly. "That would be awful."

"Really disrespectful."

"The absolute height of bad manners."

"So we could just—"

"Get the hell out of here?"

"Brilliant idea."

So the both of them turned around and left the Hall the way they came, although John noticed Victor and Henry looking at them rather knowingly.

* * *

"I think Henry and Victor are shagging," John informed Sherlock once they were outside. It was bloody cold.

"Of course they are," he replied impatiently. "You realised that now?" Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and quickly ran down the stairs. John followed.

"You  _knew_?"

"Obviously. They've been going at it for weeks."

John gaped. "And you never thought of telling me?"

"Hardly a suitable conversational topic when I was more interested in getting into  _your_ pants, John," Sherlock replied, deadpan. They walked quickly across the grounds.

"And I thought Victor was thinking of going at you," John muttered sullenly. "Where are we going?"

"Good question," he stopped, so John stopped. Sherlock rubbed his chin in mock concentration. "Well, we could spend the night  _here_ , on the grounds...but it would be rather cold, don't you think? And I'm afraid our extremities would freeze before we had the opportunity of doing anything with them. Fellatio, of course, would be out of the question." Sherlock pursed his lips like he was trying to control his laughter.

Quickly pushing the thought of Sherlock fellating him out of his head, John narrowed his eyes. "Are you being sarcastic?"

" _You're_  the expert in that field, aren't you?" he arched an eyebrow.

"Where are we  _going_?"

"To my house. Call your mother and tell her you're staying over at my place."

John's eyebrows. "Your...house?" he croaked.

"Mmm-hmm," Sherlock grabbed his arm to direct him over the remainder of the ground. "Yes. I have all sorts of facilities. Including a bed." He shot John a smirk. "I can think of many ways we can put that bed to use."

John's mouth dried. "That sounds like a very good idea," John said weakly.

"Of course it's a good idea, John. It involves me sucking you off. Now come  _on."_

Walking was a bit difficult with another erection digging its way through John's pants, growing a bit more excited at Sherlock's brash words. "How did you get here, anyway?" he muttered, trying to throw the conversation off to a less erotic avenue.

"Motorbike."

"Motor— _what?"_

"It's Irene's. She messed up quite a bit today, so I believe I was in my own right to demand a quick means of transportation," Sherlock shot him a roguish grin. "Ah, here it is," the sleek black vehicle was propped up against the fence outside school, two helmets hanging off its handles.

"You know how to ride?" John asked, watching Sherlock easily throw a leg over the seat and his elegant hands grip the handles. Fuck. John suddenly had a very filthy image of him fucking Sherlock on that very seat.

Sherlock seemed to realise the direction of John's thoughts, because he smirked. "Get in behind, John," he said, said, voice too low to be innocent, strapping on the helmet.

John slid into the seat behind Sherlock, relishing the feel of Sherlock's back against his chest. This was...this was...dear god.

Sherlock Holmes. On a motor bike.  _Riding a bloody motorbike_. It was so...so  _hot_.

He handed John a helmet. "Put it on," he ordered, and John obeyed.

Sherlock turned the handles, and the engine purred into action. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, feeling the hard planes of his flat stomach. It was perhaps a bit tighter than the motorbike warranted, but if he couldn't take advantage of the vehicle this way, what was the point of riding a motorbike?

"John, stop wiggling so much. I  _am_ a slave to my baser instincts, and I don't want to get arrested for indecent public behaviour."

John flushed, but didn't loosen his grip. "Get used to it," he said.

"Careful," Sherlock replied, his voice muffled through the helmet. "Don't bite off more than you can chew."

John's muscles clenched deliciously at his words. "Why don't you just ride?"

"Certainly endeavouring to, John."

And with that, they sped off.

* * *

Sherlock was a speed maniac. That was sure. He sped through the quiet streets of Brighton like a delinquent and John absolutely  _loved_ it. He could literally feel the glee radiating off Sherlock and he wasn't sure if that was because of him finally getting a hand around John's cock or the motorbike. He was rather hoping it was his cock causing all this happiness.

He drove to a halt in front of their house, quickly shutting off the ignition and sliding off the seat. John did it a lot less elegantly. And when Sherlock took off his helmet, his hair was all windswept and messy and his eyes were wide and bright and John didn't waste a second in grabbing the lapels of his coat and giving him a hard, bruising kiss.

The force of the kiss almost knocked him backwards, and Sherlock kissed him back feverishly, but quickly, pulling away.

"John," he said, his voice strangled. "I'm afraid I can't snog you here, that would be a terrible idea." He grabbed his arm. "Come on. Bedroom."

"Bedroom?" John asked, still feeling slightly dazed from how damn good Sherlock looked. Sherlock's hand was tightly interlaced with John's, and he was half-dragging him across the gravel path that led to the door. He was literally sprinting, and John almost smirked, thinking that Sherlock was probably far hornier that he was letting on.

"What are you smirking about?" he asked irritably, pulling a key from the back pocket of jeans and stabbing it into the lock.

"Nothing," John smiled coquettishly. Sherlock didn't comment, just kicked the door open rather violently, and tugged on John's arm so that he could pull him upstairs to his bedroom.

"Where is everyone?" John asked, looking around as Sherlock literally carried him upstairs in his haste to get him inside.

"I don't know. I don't care. Mycroft's out, I'm guessing. Parents are always out," Sherlock spoke quickly, his words literally falling over each other, tumbling out of his usually very restrained mouth. Well, not  _restrained_...John wouldn't use that word after the way he had ravished him in that unused classroom. He quite wanted to be ravished again.

Sherlock finally got to his bedroom door, which was open. He pulled John inside, locked the door, and shoved him against the wall, wasting no time in attacking his lips with his own furiously, moving against him with barely controlled hunger.

John's crotch immediately roused itself, as Sherlock pressed his body flush against John's, his tongue lapping at his bottom lip, his teeth grazing and biting and gnashing. John moved his hands to his shoulders, pushing his coat off. Sherlock succeeded in wrenching the blazer off John's shoulders only halfway, successfully pinning his arms in his own jacket behind his back. He moved down John's throat, teeth tugging at the bowtie and tearing it off like he had a personal vendetta against it.

John could feel the rush of blood in his ears, the smell of Sherlock and the feel of him, hard and angular and unyielding against his chest, a heady combination that threatened to reduce him to a puddle on the floor. A very horny puddle.

"I have been waiting to get this suit off you ever since I saw you in it," Sherlock murmured against his lips, his voice low and so  _sensual,_ dragging him by the collar of his shirt to his bed.

"Avoid the fungi," John muttered between kisses.

"Stop thinking about the  _fungi,_ I am about to rip your suit off, _"_ Sherlock growled, finally reaching the bed, where he threw him unceremoniously on top of the covers. John scrambled up, propping himself on his elbows, getting rid of the blazer, finally. Sherlock climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, his knees pinning John's thighs against the mattress.

"Don't you...like...the suit?" John asked, panting.

"The suit is marvellous," he drawled, bringing his face closer to John's and placing a teasing kiss on his lips, a brief brush of skin. "I can barely keep myself from ripping it to shreds."

"Sherlock, stop  _teasing_ ," John complained, lifting his pelvis to grind his crotch against Sherlock's very visible erection.

"You've been teasing me for  _weeks_ ," Sherlock kissed the corner of John's mouth. "Allow me to return the favour."

"Oh no, you don't," John growled, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist, and tilting his hips so he threw Sherlock off. Quickly, he climbed on top of the very surprised Sherlock, interlacing their fingers and pinning them to either side of his shaggy head.

Sherlock's pale cheeks went the most adorable shade of pink that John had ever seen.

"John," he gasped, his pupils blown wide with arousal.

"Mmm? Saying something, were you?" John grinded his erection into Sherlock's to alleviate some of the coiling tension.

"I'm—uh—" Blessedly, Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. John didn't care, really. This was not the time for talk. He lowered himself on his slender body, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, pale pink and so bloody _inviting._  They were so perfect, so delicate, almost  _feminine_. The need to ravish that mouth was overwhelming. His lips parted almost immediately, and John took the chance to slowly fuck the inside of Sherlock's mouth with his own tongue, relishing how  _spectacular_ Sherlock tasted.

"John," Sherlock moaned, against his lips, and there it was, the  _way_ he said his name. " _John,"_ he whimpered again. John moved his lips down his chin to that delectable neck, the neck he had been dying to kiss and tease and bite. It was delicate and slender, and John pressed his mouth to the pulsing carotid artery, giving it a swift nip, which caused Sherlock to buck his hips upwards with a low growl.

"John, your  _shirt_ ," he muttered, his fingers moving to the buttons, viciously ripping his shirt apart. John was pretty sure that shirt would be sort of useless now. The shirt hung off his shoulders once Sherlock was done with his assault, and John shrugged it off. Sherlock's eyes raked his naked torso, and if possible, John went even harder, under the frank appraisal in Sherlock's dilated gaze.

"You're wearing too many clothes," John said, his voice shaking, wrenching the hem of Sherlock's blasted t-shirt upward. He arched his back to allow him to drag it off his head and throw it behind him. John took a moment to admire the lithe, pale torso, the hard lines of his stomach and chest, the fine trail of hair that lead underneath his jeans, the jeans that hung off the angular hips so perfectly. With a groan, he lowered his mouth to a dark nipple, his tongue giving it a tentative flick.

" _John_ ," Sherlock warbled, arching his back, pushing it deeper into John's mouth. John smirked against his chest, taking the nipple into his mouth and tugging it gently with his teeth. Sherlock gave another whimpery moan, and John could hardly rein in his own groan at the sound. Sherlock sounding so...so  _needy_ , when he was always so perfectly in control, seeing the heat in his cheeks and along the pale skin of his throat, it turned John on more than anything Sherlock did. Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist, thrusting his hips desperately against his erection, and John knew that Sherlock deserved some attention right _now_.

"Sherlock," he said, lifting himself off a bit so he could look at Sherlock's face, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted, cheeks flushed. Beautiful.

"John why are you  _stopping,"_ he complained.

"I need you to tell me what you want," John said slowly, licking his lips. "I don't know—this is the first time I..." his voice trailed off.

"You are doing brilliantly, John, please don't  _stop_. Do what you're doing, god,  _please."_ He curled a hand behind his neck, pulling John up roughly, placing a hard, brief kiss against his lips. " _Please,"_ he begged again.

John nodded mutely, feeling a little dizzy from the force of his kiss, but complying, as Sherlock fell back against the covers with a thump, spreading his legs under John wider. He slid down the length of his body, unable to restrain himself from raking his lips across his smooth, unblemished skin. His skin was hot and feverish to touch, and John felt like branding every inch of it with his teeth and mouth.

He slid his mouth down further, until he was at his crotch, and he nuzzled against his erection through the well-strained denim. Sherlock jolted under him, lifting his pelvis off the mattress with a breathy whimper of, "John  _please."_

John quickly flicked the top button of his jeans, not wanting to fumble, wanting this to be absolutely  _perfect_ for Sherlock, to show him how much he adored him, cherished him. He pulled them down over Sherlock's delicate thighs, unable to help the smirk that tugged at his mouth at the sight of his erection protruding the front of the familiar red boxers almost obscenely. His own erection throbbed at the sight.

John smiled at those boxers, those boxers that had been haunting his dreams ever since he had seen Sherlock in them all those days ago, when he had leapt out of the covers half-naked. With a self-satisfied smirk, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pulled them right down.

"Fuck, John,  _please."_

"Sherlock," John murmured, and Sherlock lifted himself up on his elbows, raising an eyebrow at John, whose lips were a centimetre away from Sherlock's erection.

"I-uh—" he licked his lips nervously.  _This needs to be perfect._ "I'm not exactly sure how to—"

"You put your mouth on it and  _suck_ , John," Sherlock muttered, flopping back. "Now could you please—get  _on_ with it?"

Sherlock was panting, his voice trembling with need, his cock erect and leaking. John took a moment to admire him, spread eagled and begging for his touch. God, he would never get enough of this. _Ever._

He obliged, latching his lips around his weeping sex, sucking tentatively; but Sherlock seemed to like it, because he groaned, his hips giving a sudden lurch as he pushed himself inside John's mouth. He almost gagged from the unfamiliar weight of it, but the needy, gasping whimpers of pleasure that were escaping Sherlock's mouth, the knowledge that  _he_ was making him feel like that...it made it worth it.

"John," Sherlock gasped, his fingers curling tightly in his hair. " _John_ , fuck- oh  _fuck,_ John—" John would have smirked if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied, because to hear  _Sherlock_ growing absolutely inarticulate with pleasure was the bloody hottest thing he had ever heard.

" _Yes,_ John—oh god, John, don't—stop." The bed sheets were coiled tightly around his other hand.

He moved his lips up and down, coating Sherlock in his saliva and licking it off, as Sherlock thrusted his own hips in time to the movements of John's inexperienced mouth. Sherlock gave an incoherent babble of, " _Oh dear fucking—_ bloody hell-oh  _John..."_  and John continued to swirl his tongue around the tip of his cock and then move his lips down it again.

"John, I'm—" Sherlock's grip in his hair tightened painfully, but he didn't care. He was going to give him an orgasm he would not forget. "John I'm going to—"

John continued to suck, allowing his tongue and his teeth to slide up and down over his length. He didn't exactly know what he was doing, but he knew what  _he_ liked, and he attempted to pleasure Sherlock in the same way. It seemed to be working. With a final thrust and a tug on John's hair, Sherlock gave an almost violent spasm and the unexpected, salty, bitter taste filled John's mouth, and he was only vaguely aware of Sherlock screaming his name while he came. All he knew was that he had never heard something so beautiful before, and the inelegant swallowing of ejaculate was worth it.

John slipped his lips off Sherlock's slick and wet cock, wiping his mouth, giving a little cough. Sherlock's come trickled down the sides of his mouth.

Sherlock himself was panting heavily, his chest rising and following. His cheeks were red, as was his throat and his sweaty chest, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. John leaned forward and kissed him softly, the sight of that ravished, debauched mouth irresistible. The pale skin around his lips was red and sensitive from all the kissing. Then he buried his face in his shoulder, collapsing against him.

Sherlock gave a shuddery sigh, wrapping an arm around John's back. He felt him place a clumsy kiss on his hair.

"John," he mumbled. "John you are fantastic," he finished, turning over so that he could face him. A shy smile graced his pale, beautiful features.

"You're not so bad yourself," John replied, throwing a leg over his hip and snuggling closer. "Although I don't...have anyone to compare that too. You're the first boy I've given a blow job to."

"And the only one," Sherlock said, sleepily, and his hand trailed down his chest to grip his erection. "I should—"

"No," John said, firmly, even though his cock seemed to be rather reluctant. He removed Sherlock's hand and brought it to his lips instead. "No quid pro quo, remember? Later."

Sherlock gazed back at him, his silvery eyes still rather dilated. "Mm—kay," he murmured, sliding down so he could nuzzle the skin under John's chin. He lightly kissed the hollow at the base of his throat, the grip around his waist tightening. "This has been a very..." John felt a telltale breath of warm air as Sherlock yawned. "A  _very_ good day."

"Has it?" John answered, playfully. "What do you think's made it so good?"

"Don't be smug, John," he mumbled against his collarbone. "It doesn't suit you."

John chuckled, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of Sherlock's hair, feeling blissful and sated, the thought of Irene long gone from his mind, when suddenly he shot up with a rather alarming thought.

Sherlock looked extremely offended, looking at John with a complete look of betrayal, as if saying  _How dare you take away that wonderful warmth_.

" _Sherlock_ ," John said, looking down at him. Sherlock shifted so he was on his back, scowling at John.

"Get back here," he snapped.

"Sherlock- did I just—in your parent's house—did I really—oh my god, what if someone heard us? Sherlock, the  _sheets!"_ he waved dramatically at the bedspread, which certainly did bear clear evidence of sexual activities.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And they say  _I'm_ the dramatic one," he said under his breath.

"I'm not joking!" John wailed.

"John, calm down," Sherlock muttered, rolling off the bed. He kicked off the jeans and the boxers that were still wrapped around his ankles. John felt his thoughts derailed for a moment by a very naked Sherlock, but he didn't get much time to admire it for very long, because he picked up some other piece of discarded clothing on the floor (he wondered whether the majority of his clothing littered his room, and not his closet), a pair of clean black pyjamas. John liked those pyjamas. He liked the hips they clung to so perfectly even more.

"Get off the bed," he sighed. He looked thoroughly annoyed. Well it's not like John was doing it on purpose! He didn't need Sherlock's parents accusing him of depraved activities. He obliged, jumping off the bed. Sherlock gave a violent tug to the semen covered sheets, pulling them off in one great heave, and curling them into a ball, threw them into the corner of the room.

"There," he quipped. "Mrs. Turner will take care of that. Now get into the bed."

John rubbed his throat rather nervously. "Why isn't anyone home?"

"Rogers is home. My parents won't be home till—I don't know," he clambered into the bed, grabbing John's wrist to tug him half way into his lap. "Mycroft may be home."

John's eyes widened. " _Mycroft?"_

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's torso, burying his face in his neck, hooking an a leg around his waist, nudging him closer. "Don't worry, if he's heard anything, I don't really care."

"Yeah, but  _I_ do! How am I supposed to look into your brother's eyes when I know that he knows that we—that we—"

"John stop babbling and relax," Sherlock kissed a spot beneath John's ear, which sort of shut him up. "The only person that knows for a fact what we did is my skull. You can trust his confidentiality. Does your mother know that you're here?"

"Well,  _here_ as in—"

Sherlock chuckled. "I mean at my house. You needn't inform her that you're in my bed."

"Yeah, I texted her," John mumbled, sneaking a glance at Sherlock's skull, learning at him from his messy desk.

"Good," Sherlock nuzzled his neck. "Although she may be surprised. After all, it is some sort of tradition to go home with your  _date_ isn't it?"

"Do you care?" John ran his fingers down Sherlock's back, eliciting a purr from him that reminded him of a cat.

"Not particularly, no."

"Can I ask you something?" John asked, his voice slightly hesitant.

"Of course."

"Why didn't you come to school today?"

Sherlock stiffened under his touch, not saying anything for a few moments. Then he slid upwards, so that John could see his face. He was biting his lip in a ridiculously alluring way. "Why do you think?"

"I don't—well. I don't like to think that it was me."

"Of course it was you," Sherlock sighed, rolling on to his back. "I didn't know whether I'd be able to control myself around you. You fled yesterday. You would have fled today, and I didn't know whether you'd come back."

"Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," John whispered, aching to make up for all the hurt he had caused Sherlock the past few days. He turned over, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'm such an idiot. I'm so sorry. I won't run. Never. We're together now, yeah?" he threaded his fingers with Sherlock's, placing their entwined hands on his chest, where he could feel Sherlock's heart beating steadily under the skin.

Sherlock took a deep, peaceful breath. "Yes. Of course we are." he lifted their hands to his lips.

"So..." John cleared his throat. "Why did she kiss you anyway?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, an annoyed expression crossing his face. John grieved the loss of Sherlock's lips on his hand, but he had brought it upon himself.

"Does it matter?" he asked, irritably.

"Yes," John said. "It does. Because I don't want other people kissing you, Sherlock. I'm the only one who's allowed to do that."

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards. "Obviously, John. You've got no competition. There isn't anyone else."

John felt his heart flutter, but he needed an answer. "Stop avoiding the question."

"I don't know," he huffed. "Some sort of boyfriend drama, I presume. The insufferable tosser cheated on her, she ended up here, I tried to comfort her, things got out of hand. She was distraught. I don't blame her. You shouldn't, either." He looked at him then, his gaze not being one to broach argument.

"You like her, don't you?"

"I care for her, yes. I might have been a bit...rude...to her. Today." He bit his lips. "She was the one who originally told me that I should pursue you with a bit more fervour," he smirked.

John snuggled closer. "Then I should thank her. But she shouldn't have kissed you."

"Don't worry about it, please. I care for you more than anyone else. She's just a friend. I promise. You're..." John saw his Adam's apple bob skittishly. "You're a lot more."

John didn't need him to say anything else. He kissed the side of his neck softly. "Right back at you."

Then he cleared his throat.

"John, on that subject, I think... I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" John asked.

Sherlock turned his head, his expression hesitant. He licked his lips nervously. "Well..."

John shifted closer, trying to calm Sherlock down with his touch. He brushed a few stray locks from his forehead. "Hey," he said, "It's okay. You can tell me anything."

"I—uh—well—" he swallowed thickly. "Jim came to see me today," he finished in a great big rush.

John felt himself bristle. Fucking Jim Moriarty. Fucking Jim Moriarty who kept on mentally undressing Sherlock whenever he laid eyes on him. "What did he want?" he asked, rather harshly. Sherlock flinched at his tone.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—" he said apologetically, regretting the snappishness. It wasn't Sherlock's fault.

He waved him off. "It's okay. Well, he said he wanted to go for a..." he licked his lip again. " _Walk."_

John raised his eyebrows. "And you went with him?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly.

"And I'm assuming that this walk wasn't just a walk?" John felt his scalp prickle. The thought of Jim touching Sherlock...in  _any_ way...it was abhorrent. He'd break his fingers first before he tried to pull that shit.

"We went to a...cemetery," he licked his lips.

John frowned at him. " _Why_?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He seemed to think that was a good place to have a conversation. But that's not what I'm telling you."

"Then what  _are_ you telling me, Sherlock? Spit it out already," John said, his voice rising an octave. If Jim—

"He kissed me," Sherlock mumbled, dully.

" _WHAT?"_ John bolted upright, staring at Sherlock in a mixture of shock and anger "He  _what?"_ How dare he. How fucking dare he. He was going to wring that smarmy bastard's neck. He was going to bash his knuckles against that mouth. "Are you fucking with me?" he shrieked.

"John, calm down—"

"And you  _let_ him kiss you?" John couldn't help the jealousy coil in his stomach, threatening to blow way out of proportion. Sherlock was...Sherlock was  _his._ Nobody had else had a right to— _no one_.

"I didn't  _let_ him kiss me, John," Sherlock said, sitting up, his eyes growing harder. The corner of his lip turned down in disapproval. "I don't want you to think that. He just—I don't know. I didn't expect it. I pushed him off. Don't think that—John." Sherlock inched forward, his expression softening. threading his fingers through John's hand and grasping it tightly. "John, look at me."

John lifted his gaze from his knees to look at Sherlock. He was watching him with a weary expression, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth. He knew he may be overreacting, but really, could Sherlock blame him? He hated that fucking git. And he actually had the audacity to  _kiss Sherlock_?  _Touch_ him? Irene, he could just about forgive this one lapse of judgement. She actually cared about Sherlock. But Jim...Jim didn't deserve to breathe the same air as him.

"I detest him, John," he said, with finality. "I didn't expect it, I promise. I didn't know what his intentions were. I pushed him off, I swear." He leaned forward and kissed John chastely on his lips. "You're the only one that matters. It was nothing, John. An incident that I was planning to delete, but I realised that perhaps I should inform you of it. I decided that you needed to know. I didn't want Jim coming to you and making up some ridiculous tale about how I..." he waved his hand vaguely. "begged for his mouth on me or something."

John knew that his words should have been enough. But that deep rooted insecurity...the feeling that he wouldn't be  _enough_  for Sherlock, because he would get  _bored_ of him—when Sherlock was so perfect, how could  _he, John Watson—_

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped, fingers curling under his chin and lifting his head up.

John's eyes widened. "Stop what?"

"Stop  _thinking_ so much. Do you trust me or not?"

"Of course I trust you," He replied, before thinking. But it was true.

"Then trust me when I tell you that I have no interest in Jim Moriarty whatsoever. The only person I am interested in is  _you_. You have all of my attention, John. You have...you have  _everything_. Do you understand?"

"I—yes. Yes, I do."

"Well thank God for that sudden revelation," Sherlock muttered, dryly, brushing his thumb against John's mouth.

John felt his lips twitch at the deadpan expression on Sherlock's face. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "I'm going to break his nose when school re opens, I hope you know that."

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't want you to get into trouble."

"I won't," John leaned back, flopping down on the bed. "Come here."

Sherlock obeyed, immediately laying down next to him and moulding himself to John's side, wrapping his arms and legs around him like a vine. "Don't think about him so much. Or Irene. From now on you're the only I'll be kissing. And doing all sorts of filthy things with." He kissed John's neck. "And if you kill him, don't worry. I'll send the police off on the wrong track. You won't even go to jail."

"Always know you've got my back," John said sleepily, the excitement of the day finally catching up with him. He was still going to kill Moriarty, of course, but he decided to take Sherlock's words at face value. After all, if Sherlock thought  _he_ was everything to him, well, Sherlock was...Sherlock was everything and even  _more._  He carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, scratching his scalp. He made a low rumble of approval in response, melting into John's touch.

"Goodnight," he mumbled.

"Goodnight," John whispered back, laying a kiss on top of his head. He closed his eyes after that, feeling so ridiculously happy that it should have been illegal.

 _Sherlock._  And  _him. Together._ It felt like he had been given something he didn't even know he had been longing for, and now that it had been given to him, he wondered why he had spent so long  _not_ wanting it.

He fell asleep soon, to the soft sound of Sherlock's relaxed breathing and the scent of his hair.

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and smut ahoy

Wakefulness crept up on John slowly.

It was the music that did it, really. Soft, sweeping strains filled his ears, forcing his eyes to flutter open. And there was Sherlock, standing in a pool of wintry sunlight, playing his violin. He smiled shyly at John, eyes melting into a hue of silver and blue and green in the light. The crown of tousled hair was in glorious disarray, cheeks flushed by a faint pink which was probably a blush. And Sherlock stood there, looking ethereal and beautiful, dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. And he played,  _reveling_ in John's gaze, as his body moved and swayed slightly the music, as if he were performing in front of an entire audience, and not just John Watson, ruffled and disheveled and heavy-lidded with sleep.

"Why are you smiling like that?" he asked, as if the answer wasn't  _obvious._

John got up, covers falling from his body, stretching luxuriously, enjoying the mingled expectation and confusion on his face. God. He was so  _adorable_. How did he become so  _lucky_?

"You're not  _answering_ me," Sherlock complained. "This is unacceptable." He put the violin carefully on his desk, avoiding the Petri dishes, the nature of which John had no desire to know, and then sauntered over to John, tumbling into the bed next to him.

John smirked at him, leaning his back against the wall, drawing his knees to his chest. Sherlock's lips turned down in disapproval, eyes narrowing to slits beneath the shock of hair.

"John Watson," he growled. "You are teasing.  _Again._  We both know how that ends." And with that, he swiftly moved to John, grabbing his ankles and pulling at his legs until they were straight and a bit widened, and Sherlock easily crawled between them, kneeling on his long legs.

"You can't force an answer out of me," John muttered, but Sherlock's lips turned up in a crooked smile, eyes glinting with obscene promise.

"Oh, John. Do you not know me at all?" he voice dropped to a sultry purr, and he wrapped his fingers around the back of John's neck, pulling him closer, until he could slant his lips and press them to John's.

John immediately melted into the kiss, his body responding with untamed enthusiasm as his fingers groped across Sherlock's bare chest to push the dressing gown off his shoulders. Sherlock shivered slightly at the cold touch of John's fingertips, goose bumps erupting on his pale flesh.

He smirked against his lips as John gave a low whimper, before moving more insistently, prising John's lips open slowly, his mouth more careful than the previous night, as if he wanted to savour the way John tasted. John moaned softly against his mouth, as Sherlock's tongue snaked its way inside, rimming along John's teeth as he rumbled a soft noise of approval.

"You look very good in the morning, you know that?" John muttered, taking Sherlock's plump bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a tug.

"I know. I'm irresistible," Sherlock replied, shooting him a gleeful grin before bending down again. His hands moved from John's neck, down his collarbone to his chest, thumb brushing against a nipple, his palm slowly skimming down his torso, skin against skin, to rest at his hip. "I can't kiss you properly like this," he complained, and manhandled John until he was lying on his back against the pillows.

"So that's all you want me for. Sex," John said lightly, as Sherlock climbed on top of him, his bare chest warm and flushed against his own, arousal digging in between his legs, the thin cloth hardly a constraint to the friction.

" _Technically_ , John," Sherlock drawled, "This isn't sex." He nipped at his earlobe, while his fingers continued to skate along the skin at his chest.

John flushed. His mind suddenly stopped functioning at the callous statement, filthy image upon filthy image masquerading in front of his eyes.  _Sex_. Actual  _sex_. With Sherlock.  _Inside_ him. Fuck.

"Do you—do you  _want_ to—" John managed to sputter, forming complete sentences a bit difficult as Sherlock's tongue slid down the column of his throat.

"Really, John," Sherlock said impatiently, drawing his head up so he could look down at John. "Are you  _really_ asking me if I  _want_ to fuck you?"

John felt his cheeks heating up, unable to respond to that, because shouldn't they be having a  _conversation_ about this? Wasn't there something they would need to—his lust clouded mind conjured up vague images of condoms and lube, but John couldn't think of anything past that, because Sherlock's cheeks were flushed deep pink, lips parted, and his heated gaze was boring into John like he was already mentally fucking him. The erection currently twitching against his own cock proved the assumption.

"I don't think we should be having sex in your bedroom while your parents are here," John said evenly.

Sherlock's lips curved up in a smirk. "As opposed to having sex while they're  _not_ here?" he asked, eyes gleaming with lewd mischief

"You're such a prick."

" _Prick?_ Dear god, John, you're growing more vulgar by the minute," Sherlock teased, leaning down to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat. "Why don't we put the sex on hold for now, then?" John responded by an involuntarily upward thrust of his pelvis under Sherlock's hips. He felt a rush of breath against his collarbone as Sherlock chuckled.

" _Why_ are we putting sex on hold?" John demanded, because really, that sounded like an awful idea. Even though his brain continued to whisper things like,  _Talk about it first. Talk about it first._

"Because right now you're not thinking straight," Sherlock replied, teeth running down his sternum. "And as far as I know, couples usually have a  _conversation_  about this. And you would definitely want to."

"How did you—how did—" John stammered, even as Sherlock continued to slide down his body, licking down the rest of his torso. Could he  _read minds_ , now?

"Elementary, John," Sherlock rumbled, tongue darting out to flick his belly button. John groaned, hands reaching for his tangled mop of curls to tug on it. " _Fucking Christ_ ," he hissed, coherent thoughts vanishing from his head, replaced by the familiar, all consuming  _want_  spiralling down his body, his body shuddering at the thought of Sherlock's mouth around it.

"Mmm," Sherlock made a low noise at the back of his throat, licking a line from hipbone to hipbone. "Frequency of swear words increases with the height of arousal."

" _What_?"

"It's an experiment, John," Sherlock replied, his voice low and licking and not at all something that should be used while talking about  _experiments._

Sherlock's fingers curled around the waistband of his trousers, cold against the heated skin of his hips, seemingly about to pull it down when there was a  _knock_ ,  _knock_ on the door.

John felt his libido vanish in a haze of fear as he scrambled up, wiggling his hips to throw Sherlock off. Sherlock looked extremely annoyed by this, kneeling and looking down at John with a scowl.

"Sherlock?" the voice outside the door demanded.  _FUCKING HELL._ Mycroft. No. No way. John gaped at Sherlock, who had such a look of extreme boredom on his face that John wondered whether he had quite realised what was happening.

"John, don't be  _boring_ ," he complained. "Would you calm down?"

"It's  _Mycroft!"_ he hissed.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, as if this mattered very little.

"Sherlock, you're wanted downstairs for breakfast," Mycroft yelled again. "Would you do us the pleasure of coming down?"

"Why don't you just  _tell_ him?" he asked.

"I'm coming inside, for God's sake," Mycroft muttered, and the door opened with a horrifying  _click._

John only had time to spit out, "You didn't lock the  _door_?" at Sherlock, before Mycroft stepped in and stared at the both of them.

John could only imagine what it looked like; John sprawled half on his back, shirtless, in semen-covered trousers, with a very visible erection that had no intention of quelling itself, and Sherlock, also shirtless, kneeling in front of John, hair a riot of messy curls, cheeks flushed.

"Oh, hello, Mycroft," Sherlock said airily, swivelling around on his backside so he was half-obscuring John and looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft just stood there, his face a mostly impassive mask, but John could see the perfectly cold facade of it slipping and cracking; a faint pink on his cheeks, lips parted, eyes widened ever so slightly.

"Um." He uttered, hand on the doorknob. He opened and closed his mouth several times, eyes rapidly switching from Sherlock to John, and John could literally  _feel_ the wheels and gears turning in his head, trying to connect the dots.

But Mycroft was no idiot, and it was fairly simple to deduce what was going on. John was absolutely mortified, but at the same time, he had to prevent his lips from curling in amusement as Mycroft struggled to find something appropriate to say.

"Mycroft, don't just  _stand_ there, unless you've actually got something to say," Sherlock's snappish voice pierced the awkward atmosphere of the room, and Mycroft's clouded gaze cleared, shifting to Sherlock, mouth still slightly agape.

"Mother and Father want you downstairs for breakfast," he repeated, clearing his throat and standing up straighter, blatantly ignoring what had just happened. "And-um—" he swallowed, eyes moving to John, narrowing slightly. –"And please do bring your.. _.friend_  down with you. Please do join us, John," he addressed the last sentence to John, and John felt himself flush slightly.

"Okay," he said, rather a bit too loudly.

Mycroft gave a jerky nod and stepped back from the door, closing it shut hurriedly.

As soon as he was gone, Sherlock burst into laughter. His whole body shook with the extent of his amusement, and he fell back, head landing in John's lap, hand moving up to clutch at his chest as he laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Oh my god—" he giggled again. "Did you  _see_ the look on his face? Oh, we should have taken a  _picture_ of that, dear god, John—did you  _see_ that? He had no idea what to say! Mycroft Holmes, at a loss for words! Oh this was just  _delicious_."

"Your brother knows what we did," John muttered, looking down so he could meet Sherlock's gaze. His hands invariably went to rest in Sherlock's curls.

" _Yes_ ," he answered in an annoyed huff. "Obviously. That's why this is so _funny_." He rolled over so his bare chest was pressed against the cross of John's ankles, looking up at him from below his long lashes, eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. And John could literally find no reason to be annoyed, because Sherlock looked so _happy_. Careless and gleeful and  _laughing_ , for Christ's sake, and he felt like the sole purpose of his life was to ensure that Sherlock was always be in that perpetual state of contentment.

"You mustn't worry about Mycroft," Sherlock said wisely. "If he actually  _is_ as clever as he thinks himself to be, he should have known that our friendship was bound to reach a more romantic level."

John raised an eyebrow, lips twitching at the declaration. "Romantic?" he repeated, as his heart swelled with a thousand different possibilities the word could entail. But he kept his expression under check, he didn't want to make Sherlock uncomfortable, to back him into a corner where he acted merely for John's benefit.

But nervousness flickered across Sherlock's face at the sarcastic comment, his cheeks paling a bit. "Isn't it?" his voice betrayed a slight tremor, and John cursed himself for being so callous. Sherlock had no idea how to handle these things, and he was being an idiot and making a joke out of it, when Sherlock rarely said these things without being utterly sincere about them.

"Of course it is," John said quickly. "Of  _course_. I just thought—never mind. It's romantic. It's  _very_ romantic," and he found his lips twisted into a salacious grin as he realised how very close Sherlock's mouth was to his crotch. Sherlock's eyes traced the line of his grin, eyes darkening in a split second; nervousness and hesitation vanishing as his lips pulled themselves into a sexy smirk, registering the direction of John's thoughts.

" _John_ ," he said, voice low and predatory, lifting himself up so he was kneeling in front of John. "Let's finish what we started. But, of course, no sex." He leaned forward to press his lips to John's neck, his mouth warm and wet and now so familiar. John's eyes fluttered closed as his hand lifted to wind itself around the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him there.

"I don't think—" he started, but his voice died out in a gurgle as Sherlock unsheathed his teeth, dragging them across the skin in a slow bite.

"Breakfast. Parents. Mycroft," John managed to choke out, even as Sherlock's tongue darted out to lick a line down his pulse to his collarbone. But the thoroughly mundane, un-sexy words had the desired effect on Sherlock, as he pulled away with a scowl. His cheeks were flushed with pink, and John didn't have to look down to know that Sherlock was hard again.

"Your parents are waiting downstairs," he said wearily to answer Sherlock's annoyed expression.

"I know. That is an excellent excuse to hide here for the rest of the day." Sherlock inched his hand forward so he could thread his slender fingers with John's. "You don't want to see them, do you?"

"No," John answered honestly. "I don't. But Mycroft called us, and they're not stupid, they'll know someone's here. And I don't want you to get into trouble because of me."

"I'm always in some sort of trouble with my parents," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "They're always dissatisfied for some reason or another."

"Is it because you think your parents won't like me?" he asked. "I've already seen them once, but—is that it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be silly. You're brilliant. Why wouldn't my parents like you?" he scowled. "It's  _me_ they're going to have a problem with." He clambered off the bed, holding out a hand to John. "Fine, let's go. But it's going to vastly boring."

"Well, why don't you have a smoke, then? I understand it's a habit." John raised an eyebrow at him. Maybe he shouldn't have said it, but the smell of it still lingered on Sherlock's mouth, and if not now, then when?

Sherlock dropped his hand, paling. He blinked at him for a few seconds. John leaned back on his palms, looking up at him expectantly. "Yes?" he prompted. "It's alright. You don't need to—"

"It's not a  _habit_ ," Sherlock said quickly, going down on his knees so he could put his palms on John's thighs. "It's not like that at  _all_."

John sat a bit straighter, surprised at Sherlock's blush and the clear panic on his face.  _Shit. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It's just smoking. Why was he overreacting? But it was unhealthy, wasn't it?_

"Sherlock—" he started.

"It was more of a need," he explained. "Previously. Before you." Sherlock's gaze dropped, pale fingers drumming along John's knee.

"You had one yesterday," John pointed out.

Sherlock looked up at him, lower lip pinned by his teeth. "Yes," he confessed. "I've smoked after meeting you too. But not—well," he ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up everywhere. "Cigarettes help me think. I've explained it to you, haven't I? First it was the cocaine, but I knew drugs could kill me, and the cigarettes helped. They brought everything into focus. They made me less _bored_." He looked down again, shaking his head. "But now the... _compulsion_ isn't there. Yesterday I was...yesterday I was scared. Terrified, actually."

"Hey," John said softly, cupping his hands under Sherlock's jaw so he could lift up face. He was still biting his lip nervously, eyes wide and slightly fearful, weary of John's reaction. John didn't want this. He  _hated_ Sherlock like this. "I get it. Of course I do. I was even more terrified than you. But I just don't want you to get sick, Sherlock. Smoking can kill you too."

"I know," Sherlock replied. "I don't really—well, now I have you, don't I? You make things less boring."

John snorted. "Well, I would hope so. Now get off the floor."

Sherlock obliged, sitting next to him on the bed instead. John threaded their fingers together, entwined hands laying on his leg. "You'll try and stop, yeah?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. Like I said, I don't need them anymore. Not really."

John smiled at him. "Good. So." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Your parents. Not ashamed of me, are you?"

Sherlock gave him a look of great disbelief. "How can you  _say_ that?" He asked. "How can you be so  _stupid_?"

"Sorry," John said sheepishly. "I didn't—"

"Come on," Sherlock said, disentangling their fingers. "We might as well distil those thoughts entirely. Up you get. Let's take a shower and then we need to find you something to wear. You can't go down and meet my parents  _shirtless."_

 _"_ Don't you like me shirtless?" John teased.

"I  _adore_ you shirtless. You needn't wear a shirt if you don't  _want_ to, of course." Sherlock grinned. "My parents will be horrified."

"No, no," John replied hurriedly. "Clothes sound good."

* * *

Sherlock felt like the entire universe was cursing him. He'd had  _such_ an amazing night, and  _now this_. Parents. To mess up everything. He was loathe to expose John to their presence, especially when what they had felt like a fragile, delicate thing that would shatter the moment his parents said something untoward and typical. He wanted to be selfish; he wanted to keep it private and protected so that no one would sully it with their words or their opinions.

(Mycroft was an exception, because his opinion didn't really matter)

But John had this ridiculous idea that he was somehow  _ashamed_ of him, and Sherlock did not want him to think that. At all. How could he, when he felt utterly undeserving of John himself? Therefore, logic dictated that if John believed that they weren't meeting his parents because Sherlock was ashamed, Sherlock would have to bring John to meet them so that this belief could be shattered.

Which was why he was standing in front of the dining table in the dining room, hands clasped tightly in John's, his skin warm and solid and reassuring, waiting patiently for someone to notice them. So he cleared his throat very loudly.

Three heads turned to him.

Mycroft was in the process of putting a piece of toast in his mouth, and upon seeing them, put it down to raise a brow at Sherlock. Sherlock raised one back, meeting his clinical grey eyes with his own.

His mother was the first to speak.

"John! What are you—" then she noticed their entwined hands and made a slightly choked noise, eyes widening.

"I thought you had given our parents a heads up," Sherlock said pointedly to Mycroft, apprehension and fear twisting his gut. His parents could say anything they wanted to  _him_ , he hardly cared anymore, but if they said anything insulting to  _John_...

He pulled him along to the table, reluctantly letting go of their hands so he could pull a seat out for him, between his father and Mycroft. John met his eyes once, worry clouding their blue depths, before sitting down. Sherlock gave him a tiny nod and seated himself on the only empty chair next to Mycroft and his mother.

"I thought you could tell them yourself," Mycroft replied smoothly, resuming his consumption of toast. How  _hateful_.

"What's going on?" his father asked now, eyes flicking between Sherlock and John. "I didn't know John was here last night."

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "How would you know if I didn't tell you?"

"There's no need to use that tone of voice, Sherlock!" his mother admonished. "Did the both of you sleep in the same room?" the question was a stupid one, because if John had stayed over, then he would obviously not be shoved into the guest room. But his mother had picked up on their interlaced hands, and the question carried far more than it would otherwise have.

"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly, pouring out a cup of tea and holding it out to John. John looked a bit alarmed at the tea cup that had suddenly been shoved in his direction, but he took it anyway, his blue eyes sending Sherlock a significant glance.

"We didn't know that you and Sherlock were still friends," his father told John, buttering a piece of toast. "Honestly, his mother and I believed you severed communication with him a long time ago. He doesn't tell us much, you know."

John's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting in a scowl. Sherlock wanted to warn John not to say anything he might regret, but Mycroft beat him to it, a hand reaching out to touch his shoulder lightly, but it was enough. John's shoulders loosened a bit, but he leaned as far away from his father as possible.

"Father, I think that's—" Mycroft started.

"But really, John, it's  _so_ nice of you to humour him in this way, I can imagine how hard it must—"

"Mother, really, you should—"

"Oh, Mycroft, even you must be surprised at this! One week at the most was quite believable, but it's been two months, hasn't it? Or more? John must surely be  _so_ patient—"

"I really think that's enough!" Mycroft glowered at them all, setting his mug of tea down very loudly. Sherlock sent him a grudging twitch of his lips. Mycroft opened up his newspaper in response.

"Well, John," his father said, "I think we should  _thank_ you for this— _whatever_ it is—"

" _Mr and Mrs. Holmes_ ," John suddenly interjected in an icy tone. Sherlock looked up in alarm. Mycroft lowered his newspaper, watching John like a hawk, but saying nothing.

"I don't know why you think this isn't genuine. But it  _is_. And I don't know how to convince you of it, but I really don't think I should take the effort," then John pushed himself away from the table, chair screeching along the floor. He stood up, gesturing to Sherlock to do the same. "It's been a pleasure," he said, nodding to his parents, and then sending a cheeky grin to Mycroft, who gave him the barest hint of a smile.

Sherlock found his limbs obeying without really comprehending what was going on, but he was standing in a second, watching in awe as John came around the table to grasp his hand.

"John, really—" his mother sputtered, unable to say much else.

"I think Sherlock and I could have breakfast at my place instead. Ta ever so much for the tea," he lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers in the crude mockery of a wave, and then pulled on Sherlock's arm to drag him out of the dining room.

"Sherlock–!" his father called, but by that time they were both out in the hallway.

John's jovial mask slipped as they walked on, his jaw tightening and the hardness in his eyes evident. "You  _parents_ ," he seethed. "What is  _wrong_ with them?"

"John—"

"They are  _idiots_. Do you know that?  _Idiots."_

"John, listen—"

"I'm sorry if that was rude, but I swear—"

" _John_ ," Sherlock said, his name coming out as more of a growl. John stopped, turning around to look at Sherlock, brow furrowing. Sherlock breathed deeply, hand reaching out to grip John's shoulder, his eyes running down the expanse of his face and his body, taking in everything, committing it to memory.  _Wonderful_ ,  _brilliant_ ,  _amazing_ John Watson, the sandy, ruffled hair, the dark sapphire of his eyes, the pretty lips, now parted in confusion. John who had literally just told his parents to fuck off and had dragged him out of the  _dining room_  and  _refused to eat breakfast_.

He stopped thinking, crowding John against the opposite wall, putting his palms on either side of his head, body pressed against John's; warm, pliable but taunt with rugby-toned muscles and utterly, utterly  _hot_. Sherlock leaned forward pressed his mouth to John's neck, feeling the taunt tendons and the elated thrum of his heartbeat under his lips. He smelled like Sherlock's soap and clothes, but underneath that was his own scent, musky and comforting.

"Sherlock—"

"John Watson, I  _adore_ you," Sherlock breathed, lifting his head to whisper the sentence in John's ear, finishing it off with a tug at his earlobe. It was a good word, he supposed, but hardly adequate for what he felt for John. But saying that right now might not be the best idea. He felt John shudder against him, and the feel of John coming apart with a single whispered sentence heightened his perpetual at-the-surface arousal.

"I adore you too," John replied, hands lifting to bury themselves in his hair. "Now shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock was only too happy to oblige. He tilted his head and pressed his lips to John's already parted mouth, his tongue slipping inside shamelessly to taste John; toothpaste and tea. It was a heady, dizzying combination, as always, and Sherlock pressed himself closer to him with a barely contained moan, their tongues moving together slowly, warm and slick and  _delicious_. It was different than the kisses they had shared before, less hurried, less frantic, as they moved against each other deliberately, lazily, and Sherlock cradled John's face in his hands, tilting it up so he had a better angle, shimmying against his hips and tasting him,  _cherishing_ him at the same time. John's grip in hair tightened, the groan released from his lips heading straight to his cock, and the front of his pyjamas tightened rather painfully.

"Fuck,  _Sherlock_ ," John groaned against his mouth, his name an incoherent whisper as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him as close as possible until every slight movement between them escalated the friction between their erections, and it was all Sherlock could to not to pull down John's pants and take him then and there.

"Oh for  _God's_ sake, Sherlock."

Sherlock literally felt his cock wilt in his pyjamas at the sound of his well cultured voice, spitting out the sentence in exasperation. With a heavy sigh, he pulled away from John, scowling up at Mycroft, who had evidently just emerged from the dining room. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, Sherlock tried to look as disgusted as possible at his sudden appearance, discreetly tying the sash around his dressing gown to hide his half-hard cock, hidden under the cloth of his pants but still quite visible.

John, however, did not have the benefit of such attire, and he gave Sherlock a look of pure alarm when he glanced at him.

"Mycroft, you have the most appalling timing," Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and looking challengingly at his brother.

He raised his eyebrows, offended. " _I_ have appalling timing? You do realise that you're snogging your boyfriend right outside the dining room—would you like to explain to our parents exactly what you've been doing?"

"Oh please," Sherlock scoffed. "As if I care."

"You may not, but I'm quite sure you don't want John to face the brunt of our parent's disapproval." Mycroft buttoned the cuffs at his wrists absent mindedly, just standing there, sending off wave after wave of self-satisfaction.

Sherlock sent him another scowl, although he couldn't deny the truth of his brother's statement. Trust Mycroft to be annoying and right at the same time.

He reached towards John and took his hand in his own, a sentimental gesture to most, but Mycroft saw it for what it was; a promise of solidarity.

"He won't," Sherlock promised. "You know I won't let that happen."

He felt John squeeze his hand before saying, "Look, I know what this looks like, but—"

Mycroft turned to him, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock felt a twinge of annoyance at the barely-concealed threat in those eyes. He hoped to high heaven (metaphorical concept, he was aware heaven did not exist) that Mycroft didn't start with some convoluted  _don't break my little brother's heart_ speech. It was so distressingly predictable that Sherlock wanted to hit his own head with the boredom of it all.

John gave Mycroft a delicate glare before continuing, "But we can handle that. So, you know.  _Relax_. Do you trust us or not?"

Mycroft's lips gave a twitch. "My little brother, no. He has his heart in the right place—" he spared a glance in Sherlock's direction, and Sherlock felt his lips curl at the irritatingly sentimental phrase—"but he  _does_ tend to—how do you say it?  _Mess things up_. You, however," he shrugged. "I've always given you the benefit of doubt." He checked his watch, gave them a nod, and continued to walk down the hall if the conversation had hardly happened.

"I can drop the both of you off to John's," he called over his shoulder. "Please get dressed so I can deposit the both of you somewhere you won't be— _disturbed._ "

* * *

The ride to John's house, was, well, the usual. Sherlock sat in the corner of the seat and sulked, knees drawn to his chest and arms wrapped around them, and John sat in the other corner and felt terrified lest Mycroft start  _talking_ to  _him_.

They drew up in front of his home, the white washed walls and the rusty swing set in the backyard welcoming him back. Sherlock looked outside the window as the car purred to a halt, clearly fascinated.

John thanked Mycroft before opening the door and coming out, far too embarrassed to meet his eyes in the mirror and recall the horror of Mycroft walking in on them snogging not  _once,_ but  _two god forsaken times_.

Sherlock was already out of the car, walking up to the rusty fence, long fingers resting on the metal. As the car drove away, he shot John a shy smile, one of John's favourites, because Sherlock looked so... _adorable._ Without thinking, he grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, drawing him close and kissing him, hard, eliciting a surprised  _'mmph!'_ from Sherlock's lips for his efforts. He pulled away and grinned at him, enjoying the sight of the blush on his cheeks and his widened eyes.

"You can't  _do_ that," Sherlock complained, as John stepped through the fence, guiding him to the door, and ringing the bell. "What if your mother saw us?"

"She didn't. She's probably making breakfast, then she'll—"

-" go for work," Sherlock finished. "Your mother teaches Biology."

"How did you—never mind," Sherlock made an offended expression, as if John's inability to follow the line of his deductions was a great failure on his part.

Before he could reply, however, his mother opened the door, smiling at John, her blonde hair tied back in a hasty pony tail. She was still in her dressing gown. "Hello, dear," she said, then smiled blankly at Sherlock, staring at him for a few seconds.

"Hello, Mrs. Watson," Sherlock greeted stiffly. John knew it may have sounded rude, but he knew it was just Sherlock's being nervous. He hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, and he was keeping his face deliberately neutral, as if he didn't know which expression would be appropriate for the situation.

"Oh hello, love, please come in," she said, opening the door wider so the both of them could come in. She raised an eyebrow at John.

"Is this—?"

"Oh yeah," John said, patting Sherlock on the back. He smiled politely at his mother, suddenly wrenching out an outstretched hand.

"I'm Sherlock," he said quickly. "John's friend. I think he must have—has he—er—told you about me?" Sherlock glanced quickly in John's direction, as if making sure he wasn't doing anything wrong. John gave him a reassuring smile, wondering what was making him so nervous. Sherlock was  _never_ like this around people, his usual modus operandi when he met strangers was to bulldoze them over with his brilliance and make sure they knew that he was far cleverer than them. Here, however, Sherlock seemed to be trying very hard  _not_ to come off as arrogant.

His mother smiled warmly at him, albeit a little surprised, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it. "Oh, so formal," she gushed. "Of course he's told me about you, Sherlock! Lovely name, by the way, is it foreign? I was hoping to meet you soon! It's been  _ages_  since he's met you and he hasn't brought you even once. Are you hungry, dear?" She said all this very fast, as usual.

"I, err—" Sherlock blushed. Honest to god  _blushed._ In front of an  _adult_. "Yes?"

"Where's Harry?" John stepped in to save Sherlock from what was obviously some sort of panic.

"Oh, she's having breakfast. Come along, John. Sherlock. Let's feed you both."

* * *

John's sister looked liked like John.

This was the first thing he deduced when they stepped into John's bright kitchen, where a skinny girl, approximately eight years old, with short blonde hair scraped back with a ridiculously pink hair band and very big, blue eyes sat at the dining table, a slice of toast suspended midway between her hands and her mouth.

She grinned at John, blue eyes shining. Sherlock could understand the sentiment. After all, it was  _John_. Who  _wouldn't_ be happy to see him?

"Hi!" she exclaimed brightly. Then, "Whose your boyfriend?" She raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, all previous childish glee gone and replaced by something suspicious. "I haven't seen  _you_ before. You look too posh to live  _here._ So..." She put down her piece of toast and leaned back, a finger on her chin. "You must be  _Sherlock_." She said his name like it was some sort of salacious secret, and Sherlock looked at John for guidance. This small girl terrified him.

"Why yes, I am," Sherlock answered slowly, giving her a polite nod. She seemed pleased at this acknowledgment.

"Oh, hush, Harry," Mrs. Watson muttered, putting down two plates of eggs and toast on the table. "Sherlock, John, sit down, dears. John, I'm off to get dressed for work. Make sure you both eat everything!" then she sprinted out of the kitchen.

John was glaring at his little sister. "Don't you  _dare_ ," he seethed, pulling out a chair for Sherlock and making a terse gesture at him which Sherlock couldn't interpret, so he took off his coat and draped it over the back of his chair because he didn't know what else to do with his hands.

" _What_?" she demanded. "He  _is_ your boyfriend. You never stop talking about him."

Sherlock pursed his lips to prevent a giggle. Harry was cleverer than he gave her credit for. Obviously John did not share the same powers of observation, or else he would have noticed that Sherlock was in love with him a very long time ago.

"Oh,  _don't_ you, John?" he smirked, giving John a playful shove. "I didn't know you were quite so taken with me."

John scowled at him. "You might not want to get snarky, you prat. Otherwise I won't let you finish what we left so woefully incomplete at your house."

"No need to get so  _touchy,_ John," Sherlock muttered, picking up a slice of toast and biting into it. His stomach growled enthusiastically. He hadn't realised how hungry he had been. He hadn't had dinner last night, since he and John had been otherwise engaged. He was rather hoping for something of a similar nature to happen soon.

Harriet gave a loud 'ha!' of laughter. "You both sound like an old married couple," she grinned. "Have you..." she lowered her voice to conspiratorial whisper. " _kissed_ him yet?"

John gaped at her. "Have you been watching those trashy movies again?" he asked furiously, almost spilling the tea he was pouring out.

" _What_ trashy movies?" she asked, as if she were offended that John could make such a scandalous accusation. Sherlock was finding this all very amusing. Plus, John had a faint tinge of pink to his cheeks which was very...arousing. Although he realised that perhaps that was not a very appropriate direction for his thoughts, especially as John's little sister was right here. He may not be very good with children, but he knew that John wouldn't be too taken with the idea of snogging in front of her.

"Don't you have school?" Sherlock asked her, changing the subject, since he was afraid that John would throw something at her. He was crunching into his toast, looking extremely annoyed.

Harriet gave him a look of enormous disgust that he assumed meant that he had asked a very silly question. "The  _hols_ have started," she stated, as if this was obvious. Which, in hindsight, it probably was. Sherlock didn't have school today either.

"Oh," Sherlock nodded, accepting his folly. "Yes, of course. How silly of me." He picked up a cup of tea and drank the scalding liquid, looking at John over the rim of china, trying to send him a clear message,  _Let's get out of here your sister is horrifying._

John smirked at him. "Aren't you going to finish your breakfast?"

Sherlock did not want to finish breakfast. Sherlock wanted to drag John out of this kitchen and into the confines of his bedroom, then proceed to shag him until he couldn't remember his own name. But no. John was concerned with  _breakfast_.

John lifted a brow as he pulled out a chair, sitting down, lips curving into a crooked smile. "What happened? Aren't you  _hungry_?"

Oh. John was  _teasing_.

" _Very_ ," Sherlock murmured back, leaning a hip against the table and drinking his tea. "I've been hungry for a while now." He felt his cheeks flaming, not out of embarrassment, but because his mind was rapidly orchestrating various fantasies where breakfast was not of prime importance. John's skin was flushed a pale pink as well, and this time it wasn't from anger.

"I may only be eight," his sister's high-pitched voice wiped the atmosphere clear of the barely concealed sexual innuendo and clumsy double meanings in a second. John looked up suddenly, cheeks going from pink to scarlet as he cleared his throat very loudly. "But if the both of you think I have no idea what is going on here, you're both very stupid. I know  _he_ think he's clever," she jutted her head towards Sherlock, an expression on her face which clearly said that she did not at all think that Sherlock was clever, "but he's really not. I'm going away, then the both of you can snog at this kitchen table like you want to. It's getting very uncomfortable here," she got up loudly, picking up her plate of half eaten toast and eggs. "One can't even have breakfast in peace anymore," she protested, and marched out of the room.

Sherlock watched her go, unsure of how to react.

"Yep," John said, answering his unspoken question. "She's always like that. Very perceptive and all, my sister."

Sherlock turned to him, raising a brow. "So you're mother's gone, and your sister has very kindly provided us with some privacy." He put his empty cup down. "I think we might as well take her advice, don't you?"

John raised his eyebrows. "You haven't had any dinner last night. Eat your breakfast first."

Sherlock made an annoyed huff, but obliged, because John took this whole 'food' thing very seriously. Besides, it seemed a very small price to pay for what would follow afterward. Hopefully.

"So, I was thinking..." John said slowly, picking at his eggs. Sherlock looked up at him, immediately registering the weary tone of his voice. John licked his lips, a gesture that Sherlock had realised meant that John was nervous.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"Your parents aren't going to let me come back any time soon, are they?" John looked up at him balefully. "Breakfast was a disaster."

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be silly. Breakfast was brilliant.  _You_ were brilliant," he relied. "Don't worry about my parents.  _I_ don't."

John sighed. "But it's not that easy, is it?" A small frown formed between his eyes. Sherlock wanted to lean forward and kiss it away. John was  _upset._ He hated it. And as of this second, the ultimate goal of his life was to remove whatever was making John upset and make him happy. John should always be happy.

"John," he said softly, moving his hand across the table so he could place it over John's. "Does it really matter to you what my parents think of you? Or me, for that matter? You saw it for themselves. They don't  _care_."

John bit his lips, blue eyes clouded with thoughts that Sherlock could not discern. If only he could pinpoint  _exactly_ what was making him upset and delete it for him. His  _parents_. Why did they have to be so  _difficult_?

"I know," John replied, threading his fingers through Sherlock's. "But they're already so..." he shook his head. "What if I made that worse?" When John looked at him, his expression looked so  _fragile_ that all Sherlock wanted to do was wrap John in his arms and tell him that all that mattered was that  _he_ was happy, and that his parents were idiots, and that he was a fool for thinking that they came into the picture at all.

"Do you really think you could have made it  _worse_?" he asked him instead. "How much  _worse_ could it have been? Nothing you say, or I say, will change it. I've stopped trying to make them happy a long time ago. Now I want to dedicate my energies towards making  _you_ happy, because I actually  _care_ for your happiness. And you make  _me_ happy, and they won't understand that. So why do you want to worry about it?"

"But—"

Sherlock heaved a great sigh, pushing himself away from the table and getting up. John stopped talking, looking at him wearily as Sherlock walked over to John, twisted the chair around, and straddled his lap.

"Sh—"

"Stop it," Sherlock said resolutely, cupping his hands under John's jaws and tilting his head up so he could see his face. John's tongue darted out to wet his lips, eyes wide and  _woeful_. This had to end. Now. "Stop blaming yourself."

"I just don't want them to hurt you anymore," John said quietly, and Sherlock's heart  _ached._

"They won't. Don't you see?" Sherlock's thumb stroked the edges of his cheekbones. "They  _can't_. You only get hurt by people you care about. You, for example, have the power to hurt me a great deal."

John's eyes widened in alarm. "Sherlock, you know I—"

"Shh," Sherlock admonished him softly. "I know. Of course I do. But that's not the point. I need you to stop thinking that you're responsible for any of this. You're not. You make me happy, and I care about you very much and that's all that matters for now. Okay?"

John gave him a small smile. "How on Earth could  _anyone_ have called you a sociopath?"

Sherlock chuckled, relief flooding his system. John was  _smiling_. He had never seen something so beautiful in his life. "Everyone isn't  _you_ , John," he muttered, before bending his head so he could catch John's lips in his own. He felt John make a soft sigh as he melted into the kiss, leaning his body against Sherlock's as he parted his lips. Sherlock's tongue traced his bottom lip, making John moan softy. Their tongues moved languidly against the other, arousal bubbling beneath the surface of the kiss, simmering and  _there_ , but Sherlock wanted to slow this down, wanted to show John that he meant every word of what he had said, that  _this_ is what mattered.

Someone cleared their throat very loudly.

Sherlock broke off the kiss immediately, slipping off John's lap so fast he might have ended up on the floor. He stood up as straight as possible next to John, just as John crossed his legs hurriedly.

John's mother was at the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in her work clothes, her face very pink and her eyes very wide. "Well." She said.

"Mum, it's not what you think—" John started, but his mother held up her hand.

"I'm not an idiot, John," she said, but Sherlock realised that she didn't sound angry. A trifle...amused? "Is this why you haven't been bringing him over? Sherlock, dear, you don't have to look so frightened."

Sherlock stared at her.

John gave a weak chuckle. "Mum, seriously—"

"John, it's fine.  _Really,"_ she added, looking at the disbelieving look on John's face. "But I'd rather you didn't snog at the kitchen table, hmm? We eat there. And maybe not in front of Harry, yeah? Alright. I'm off to work. I hope I can trust the both of you alone?" she quirked an eyebrow at the both of them.

John made a slightly strangled noise. "Mum, you don't have to—"

"Don't worry," she said airily. "We're still having a conversation about this. With Sherlock as well," she added, giving him a very piercing look. Sherlock swallowed. "I can't believe I didn't notice my son was gay," she mused to herself as she walked off. "And I'm his  _mother._ "

When the both of them were sure she was gone, John started laughing.

"I assume that wasn't how you envisioned your mother finding out?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Do you realise that we've been caught every time we tried to do something?" he asked, standing up.

"Your mother thinks you're gay," Sherlock pointed out. "I think you ought to be more worried about that." He took John's wrist and pulled him towards his chest, putting his hands on his hips.

"Yes. True. I don't think I'm gay. I just have an attraction for tall, dark haired geniuses." He smirked, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Just  _one_ ," Sherlock said irritably, leaning down and tugging on John's bottom lip with his teeth.

John grinned. "We aren't supposed to snog in the kitchen, remember?" he sounded giddy, and he looked  _adorable_. Sherlock wanted to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

"Don't be  _boring_ ," he scoffed, and pressed his lips to John's again.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Jim being a creepy fucker. As usual.  
> Drop me a comment, if you can :)

"Christmas is the most preposterous festival in the history of preposterous festivals," Sherlock announced languidly from his position on John's lap. His eyes were closed, curls falling over his forehead as he rested his head against John's thigh.

"I thought you were asleep," John replied, amused, pausing  _It's A Wonderful Life_ because evidently Sherlock was aiming to have a meaningful conversation.

"I was most definitely not  _asleep_ ," Sherlock said scathingly, opening his eyes wide and sounding absolutely disgusted, as if John had just accused him of something deeply insulting. Which, in Sherlock's opinion, he probably had. "You were watching that terrible film so I just closed my eyes to spare myself the horror of watching it with you."

"You were sleeping."

"I am not going to have this argument with you," Sherlock muttered. "You become absolutely  _incorrigible_ during Christmas."

"I know, I'm terribly mundane," John said dryly, carding a hand through Sherlock's curls and making him  _mmm_ a noise of sleepy approval. Sherlock was sleepy, but  _of course_ he would deny it till his last breath. Then fall asleep. "What's so terrible about Christmas? Besides the obvious, I mean," John asked lightly.

Sherlock scowled, shooting up straight and turning around so he could look at John. His hair was sticking up all over the place and John wanted to lean forward and kiss him, but Sherlock looked like he was on the verge of complaining, and god forbid if John tried to stop him from  _complaining._ Complaining was Sherlock's coping mechanism. His natural state of being. The day Sherlock stopped complaining would be the day the world ended,

"Besides the  _obvious_?" he spat. "Where do I  _start_? People behaving as if this is the one day they can be nice to each other, and the rum cake, and the  _presents,_ and the ridiculous urban legends—" Sherlock snorted. " _Santa Claus_. Years of scientific advancement, John, and yet we still believe in  _Santa Claus_. I weep for humanity."

"Santa isn't an urban legend. He's a  _fairy tale_ ," John pointed out, stretching his legs out and putting them on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock looked shocked at this casual response to his complaint. "I'm surprised you haven't deleted him from your mind palace."

"John, we believe in a fat man who dresses in a red suit, eats your food and  _breaks into your house._ " Sherlock said urgently, like he wasn't being able to press upon John the ridiculousness of the whole concept.

"If people didn't want him to break in, they'd close up their chimneys. I don't think you can blame him. What have you been  _doing_ on Christmas all these years?"

Sherlock made a non committal gesture and turned his attention to John's socked foot, retreating from the conversation immediately.  _Uh oh._

"Sherlock?" John asked, uncertainly, tucking his leg under him and leaning forward to look at him properly.

Sherlock's fingers twitched like he didn't quite know what to do with them and looked up at John. "Is it relevant?"

"You're relevant to me, so this is relevant to me. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Sherlock," John ventured, because he had a feeling that he was treading on thin ice here. Obviously. Sherlock's distaste for Christmas must run deeper than what he had just said. John was such an  _idiot_ , being  _flippant_ about it.

"We've never celebrated it," Sherlock said matter of factly.

 _What?_ "What do you mean?" he asked, inching forward so he could sit closer to him without smothering him.

"Mother and Father didn't think it was practical. And they thought I was a sociopath anyway so they didn't see the point," Sherlock replied casually, and John felt his stomach twist into knots. "I didn't get presents either," he shrugged. "Though that doesn't matter. It's not like they would have cared to find out what I'd have actually wanted. So Christmas was just...any other day." He said it all in that particular way of his, like it was irrelevant, didn't matter, and if John was someone else, he wouldn't have felt the basic  _hurt_ behind it all. Because Sherlock  _cared_ about these things, even though he hated to admit it, and John wanted to make him know that that was  _fine._

"I'm going to get you something  _brilliant_  for Christmas," he said, the words rushing out of his mouth. Suddenly it had become very important to him to wipe away that hurt look on Sherlock's face, all the hurt that he had probably faced all these years, to just make it all  _vanish._ "I am going to make this the most  _brilliant_ Christmas you have ever had in your life. We're going to cuddle in my bed and snog in front of the fireplace and I'll wake you up with kisses and you'll open your present and you'll love it because I  _know_ what you'd actually  _like_."

"John—" Sherlock said.

"I am going to give you such a lovely Christmas that you will completely forget about all the previous ones you've had, all those horrible ones with people who don't understand you, I am going to make you  _love_ Christmas. Do you understand?"

"I think—"

John interrupted the sentence by smashing his mouth to Sherlock's, cradling his face and kissing him as if his life depended on it.  _I love you I love you I love_   _you_ , he tried to say, thinking of all those years before John had met this brilliant boy, years of gloomy Christmasses and New Years and Thanksgivings, where Sherlock might have actually  _wanted_ a present, and  _wanted_ to celebrate, but nobody  _understood_ him, just labelled him 'Sociopath' and decided that he wouldn't like it anyway.

Sherlock's lips were frozen for a few seconds, before he wrapped his arms around John's neck, kissing him back just as enthusiastically, and John might have felt loved in return, but he did not want to think about that, he just wanted Sherlock to know that  _he_ was adored, and cherished, and  _loved_ , even if he was too scared to tell him that.

When he pulled away, Sherlock's lips were bruised and red, and his cheeks were pink and his hair was a tangle of curls all over his head, and John loved him so much at that moment that everything inside him  _ached._ And how had that happened? Somewhere along the line, he had fallen desperately in love with Sherlock Holmes, and he hadn't even realised it.

"You are the most perfect human being on this planet," Sherlock finally said, gravely.

"Right back at you," John whispered, and kissed his nose.

After a while, when they were cuddling on John's couch, watching  _It's a Wonderful Life,_ (well, John watched, Sherlock grumbled and complained and shouted abuse at the characters), "Will Mycroft be lonely at home?"

Sherlock looked darkly down at John who was resting his head on his shoulder and said, "He won't be at home. He's going to be at  _Lestrade's_."

John blinked at him. "Who?"

"Do you remember that police officer we met on our first date?"

"First date?" John raised an eyebrow, pushing himself up to look at Sherlock's face. "You and I haven't ever gone on a date."

"The murder, John! The first murder we solved. The pink lady?"

"Oh, yeah," John smiled, thinking fondly of that day. "That wasn't a  _date_."

"It was most definitely a date," Sherlock said, in a tone of voice that broached no argument. "As I was saying, that idiotic officer—"

"Hang on, how does your brother know him?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He  _called_ him. Originally, I think it was just to tell him that I wasn't to be in any trouble over what I did—well, Mycroft probably  _threatened_ him—and do you know what happened one week later?"

"What?" John asked.

"Damned if I know," Sherlock huffed. "All I know is that it is highly likely that Mycroft is shagging him, and I don't even want to  _know_ about it, but you're worried that—"

"Hang on," John said, holding up a finger. "Your brother is  _shagging_ him? What?"

"I  _know,_ " Sherlock replied. "It's  _horrible_. He thinks he's being awfully clever, but as if  _I_  wouldn't know. It's like he's made it his life's mission to make my existence as awkward as possible."

"I did not want to know about this," John complained. "You didn't  _have_ to tell me. Oh the  _imagery_ , Sherlock..."

"I was being delicate," Sherlock defended.

"No, Sherlock, that was not delicate," John shook his head, horrified. "You are going to give me nightmares."

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned. "Boring. I'm bored."

"Good. Because I, unlike you, actually care for our sanity. Let's go out."

* * *

"I can't believe you brought me here."

Sherlock looked around himself with an expression of enormous disgust, at the stalls selling candy and Christmas things and the Ferris wheel in the distance and the people and John found this all very funny.

"It's a fair. It's Christmas tradition. And I'm getting back at you." John replied, handing over the stick of cotton candy that Sherlock had demanded. He supposed it was a fair trade. Sherlock seemed delighted by the cotton candy. He didn't  _say_ that of course, it was probably far below his dignity to say that he liked something so pedestrian.

"Are you still hung up about Mycroft? He's not your brother, you can't possibly be as disgusted by it as I am," Sherlock said, picking at the sweet and making his fingers extremely sticky in the process. They walked together, Sherlock silently simmering at what he probably thought was torture, and John enjoying himself immensely.

"Stop bringing it up, for god's sake," John snapped. "And no, that's not the only reason," John reached out for some cotton candy and Sherlock shot him such a look of annoyance that he decided he'd keep his hands to himself.

"Why else? Unless you're just bent on being  _troublesome._ You're the only person I do  _not_ find troublesome, John, why do you want to ruin that image?"

John rolled his eyes. "You were bored, and when you're bored you get depressed, and I hate it when you're depressed. Besides, you should get some fresh air." And really, Sherlock looked good. Not that he didn't  _always_ look good, but the wind had tousled his hair and there was colour in his cheeks, and well, he looked a bit irritated, but he  _always_ looked irritated. John did not want Sherlock to stay indoors anymore, because then the both of them would go mad, and that was a state of affairs he'd rather avoid.

" _Fresh air,"_ Sherlock snorted, as if he was saying  _ties_.

"Come here," John said, grabbing his wrist and making them stop in front of a game stall. Sherlock looked alarmed.

"Will you make me  _play_? _"_ he asked, horrified. There was a gaggle of teenagers around the B-Ball Bushel-Throw, and they looked like they were having fun, even though none of them were getting a basket.

"No," John said. "I will. And I'm going to win you that stuffed pirate," John pointed to the toy in question, pinned above the others, looking for all the world like a pirate, with the eye patch and the hat and everything.

Sherlock was trying very hard not to look pleased. "It was a mistake to tell you about the pirates," he muttered under his breath.

When his turn finally came, John took his shot, and the first few times it bounced right out of the bushel.

"This is ridiculous," John grumbled, trying again.

"You're cute when you get frustrated," Sherlock mused beside him.

"Shut up," John said.

"John," he suddenly said, "Stop."

John froze with ball in his hand, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "What?"

The man in the booth made an annoyed gesture. "All right boys, there's no need to hold up the line. What is it?"

"I want you to take those out," Sherlock demanded, pointing to the spare balls at the bottom of the bush.

The man narrowed his eyes. "I can't do that."

"I think you can," Sherlock replied, leaning over the counter and speaking in a low voice. "It's basic physics that if there is a ball at the bottom of the bushel, it deadens the ball that is thrown. It changes the angle of refraction of the second ball and causes it to bounce out, making it impossible for anyone to win a prize."

The man's lip curled. "No need to be a smart arse, you little—"

The Sherlock turned around at the rest of the people behind him and said in a very loud voice, "This man is cheating. I'm afraid that despite your best efforts, which won't be very good in any case, you will be unable to win a prize. So I advise—"

"Alright, alright," the man snarled, taking the balls out.

Needless to say, John managed to win the pirate.

"It is ridiculous to me that you presume that I would want this," Sherlock said, dangling the pirate in front of John's face as they walked away. He was walking with an even greater sense of purpose than before, evidently quite proud of himself. "I've never had a stuffed toy in  _my life_."

"Alright," John said, in a mockingly sad tone, "We'll just have to throw him away—"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, offended, moving the pirate out of sight. "Don't be presumptuous, John, it doesn't suit you. I quite like this thing. It reminds me of you. In fact, I think I should thank you for this."

"How does it re—"

But the rest of John's sentence was swallowed by Sherlock fisting his hand in John's jumper and placing a very hard, single-minded kiss on his mouth. His lips were still sweet and sticky from the cotton candy, but John barely had time to taste it. When Sherlock moved away, he felt hot and damp and his lips buzzed.

"Well that's one way of thanking me," he said breathlessly. "But I have an even better idea."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yep," John replied, grabbing Sherlock's hand and moving them through the crowds very quickly.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Somewhere I can snog you senseless," John replied frankly, and he lead him behind the enormous trampoline and into the alley behind it.

"There are  _children_ there," Sherlock said in alarm.

"Shut  _up_ ," John snapped, and pulled them behind a dumpster, and shoved Sherlock against the concrete wall. The pirate fell to the ground.

"Oh," Sherlock said, "The dumpster is quite conv—"

But John didn't let him finish that, because he crushed his lips against Sherlock's, hard and bruising, and Sherlock made a little  _mmph!_ Before wrapping his arms around John's waist and pulling him closer. John had to stand on his tiptoes to reach his mouth, but that didn't seem to be a problem, because Sherlock was reaching under his jumper to splay his fingers across John's stomach and his lips were parted and John could tasted the cotton candy on his tongue like he had wanted to.

" _John_ , fuck,  _John, fucking—_ ," Sherlock groaned, dropping into his usual string of obscenities whenever he was aroused. John smirked against his mouth, biting down softly on his bottom lip so that Sherlock squirmed under him, gripping his hips hard against the bare skin just above the waistline of his jeans, rocking against him.

"Still worried about the children?" John asked, tracing kisses down Sherlock's jaw line. Sherlock sucked in a gasp, fingers scrabbling against John's skin, leaving scratches as he tried to touch as much of him as possible. His jumper was hitched around his ribs, the cold air stinging the exposed skin.

"You're so smug when you're kissing me," he rasped, just as John trailed his mouth down Sherlock delectable neck, nipping and biting at the pale skin just enough to leave something there for Sherlock to remember. His hands moved to the hem of his inappropriately tight shirt, pulling it out of his jeans, moving the coat out of the way so he could pop the buttons open and run his hands down Sherlock's fevered skin. Sherlock quivered under his touch, nipples hard and breaths increasing in tempo as John rutted against him and sucked at his neck.

"I should be," John answered, biting the skin just above Sherlock's collarbone, causing Sherlock to growl in response.

"I was supposed to—thank you—let me—" Sherlock said raggedly. "Need to—I want you in my mouth," he finished, and John pulled his lips away for a moment to blink at Sherlock, because  _damn it_ , the way he spoke, you'd have thought he used that bloody voice of his like a weapon. John's cock throbbed and Sherlock didn't give him time to think, he held on to John's hips so hard they would probably bruise and spun them around so quick John didn't even realise until he was the one pinned against the wall instead.

" _Jesus,"_ he said breathlessly.

Sherlock smiled crookedly at him, corrected, "Sherlock," before bending down to kiss him filthily, tongue shoving between his lips without preamble and fucking his mouth without restraint.

" _Motherfuc—_ jesus,  _Sherlock_ ," John cursed incoherently, and Sherlock pulled away for a second, smirked, and then dropped to his knees, fumbling with John's belt.

John looked down in alarm, even as his hips gave a jolt every time Sherlock's fingers brushed against his straining erection in the process of pulling his jeans down. "Sherlock, we'll be seen," he managed between pants.

"Be quiet, I'm thanking you," Sherlock ordered, finally shoving his jeans and his pants down around his thighs.

John didn't have time to respond to that, because Sherlock took him in his mouth, and he was warm and wet and his tongue knew  _exactly_ what to do. John bit his lips to control his groan, because the dumpster was the only thing hiding them, but every time the thought came into his head, it vanished, because Sherlock was licking and sucking and  _god damn it_  how was he so good? Sherlock kept his hands against his squirming hips to keep him in place, and John had to try very hard to not thrust into his mouth and chaff his throat raw.

" _Fuck_ ," he whimpered, risking a glance down. Sherlock hollowed his cheeks as he sucked, and helooked up at him, from beneath those long, dark lashes, lips still wrapped around his cock, those  _damn_ eyes sparkling with lascivious amusement, and John could tell that Sherlock was cataloguing each of his reactions to deduce how  _exactly_ to pleasure him, and it was working,  _god,_ it was working. He threw his head back with an ill-concealed moan, and he hoped that no one heard them. But fuck, Sherlock was using his  _fingers_ now, and John didn't have a chance in hell. " _Jesus Christ, Sherlock,"_ he said, his voice shaking, and Sherlock gave a lick  _just so_ , and John came.

It was a bit inelegant, it usually was, but Sherlock was always careful to not make a mess. He stood up, wiping the come off his mouth with his sleeve before reaching forward to kiss John softly, pulling up John's pants and jeans as he did so.

"You deduce me while you're sucking me off, don't you?" John asked, once he'd caught his breath, and was running his hand through his hair, which was probably a mess.

"I  _have to_ ," Sherlock said defensively. "How else am I supposed to be sure you're enjoying it? And there's no point fixing your hair, you'll still look like you had your cock down my throat." He looked down at himself as he dexterously fastened the buttons on his shirt and tucked it in.

John was never going to get tired of Sherlock saying things like that, John thought, as they walked out of the alley, Sherlock looking fine, just with rosier cheeks and messier hair _,_  and John feeling and probably looking utterly debauched. This always seemed to happen.

"This day has not been a waste after all," Sherlock said, not even trying to keep the smugness out of his voice. "Four minutes and 3 seconds."

John looked at him. "What?"

"Four minutes and 3 seconds," Sherlock repeated loftily. "That's how long I made you last."

"You were  _counting_?" John asked, horrified.

"Don't sound so frightened, John, it's just  _data_. Next time we'll see if we can make it to five minutes. It's all a matter of adequate research."

"You're such a  _bastard_ ," John complained, actually meaning to say  _You're brilliant and I love you._   _And I want to tell you how much I love you, how much you mean to me, and how you just sucked me off behind a dumpster and I can't get over the fact that I actually find that romantic._

"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, with a long suffering air. "You tell me all the time. So what do we do now? Let's go home. I think we should try out my hypothesis that I can make you last for five whole minutes."

John rolled his eyes, and then caught a glimpse of brown hair in the crowd some distance away that looked horribly familiar.

"Sarah's here," he informed Sherlock, who was leaning against an abandoned popcorn booth.

Sherlock scowled at him. "I gave you four minutes and 3 seconds of fantastic sex and this is how you repay me?"

"I really ought to apologise to her," John said uncomfortably. "I haven't spoken to her since the Formal."

"Because school's _closed_ ," Sherlock informed him irritably. "How were you supposed to? And you don't need to  _apologise._ She was having a lovely time with Powers, remember?"

"Two minutes," John promised, leaning forward and placing a kiss on Sherlock's scowl. "Don't go too far."

Sherlock continued to scowl at him as he left, unappeased by the kiss.

* * *

Sherlock watched John disappear into the crowd, very annoyed. John was far too  _nice._ He was always doing  _nice things_. Sherlock had the firm belief that John should only be doing nice things  _for Sherlock_ , because everyone else did not deserve John Watson's niceness. Not that  _he_ did, specifically, but at least he was in love with John. Oh, who was he kidding? The entire world was in love with John. It was a terrible character defect, very inconvenient. Sherlock was always involuntarily  _sharing_ John.

He walked a bit further from the alley and that distasteful trampoline with the distasteful children jumping about in it, vaguely in the direction of the cotton candy booth. Cotton candy, Sherlock decided, was his third favourite thing in the world. The first was John, of course, and the second was murders. But then he realised he didn't have any money because he usually didn't bother with such things, so now even more annoyed, he went and sat on a little bench across from the booth, waiting for John, wondering why on Earth he wasn't throwing away the silly pirate John had won for him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Is that really  _you_?"

Sherlock felt a cold trickle run down his spine at the familiar Irish lilt, his mind going blank for a horrifying minute. He turned around, and Jim Moriarty was grinning down at him, hand clutching his chest in mock shock.  _What was_ he  _doing here?_

"Hello, Jim," he said lightly, turning away. He felt nauseous suddenly, his lips giving a twinge as he remembered the last time he had seen him.

"Darling, you're being terribly  _rude_ ," Jim chimed, sitting down next to him, far too close, crossing his legs. "It's  _so_ hurtful."

Sherlock shifted, wondering if he should just get up and leave. But no...that would make him look scared. And he  _wasn't_ afraid of Jim Moriarty.

"Yes, it's such a tragedy when people don't like you," Sherlock replied smoothly, still not looking at Jim.

Jim laughed, a high-pitched, manic laugh that made Sherlock shudder. "Let's not  _pretend_ , Sherlock dear. You like me very much. It's alright, though. I can wait."

Sherlock turned towards him then, narrowing his eyes. "Wait for what?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, a smirk playing on the corner of his mouth. "For you to run back to me, of course," he replied, reaching forward to brush a thumb across Sherlock's lower lip. "Dear Lord, that _mouth_. I can't wait to kiss you again."

Sherlock swatted his arm away, his stomach rolling at the touch. "Stop it. Stop this," he snapped, getting up. Jim looked unmoved. He simply lounged a bit more on the bench, stretching his legs out and looking expectantly up at Sherlock, as if this was all very amusing and he was enjoying himself a great deal.

"Stop what?" Jim asked, innocently. "Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

Sherlock felt his lip curl. "I told you to stay away from me. I  _told you_. I'm not interested. In you, in your silly little game, in  _anything_. So just...stop. Stop exerting yourself."

Jim's lips pulled up in a leer. " _Look_ at you," he drawled. "You're blushing, do you know that? What are you afraid of? Hurting your little pet? How many times must I tell you, Sherlock? He's no good for you."

The need to punch Jim across his smug little face was overwhelming. Sherlock clenched his fists at his side, controlling himself. That would be  _exactly_ what he wanted, and Sherlock was not going to give that to him. "I think I can decide what's good for me by myself, thanks," he hissed.

"See, that's the  _thing_ ," Jim said slowly, getting up and standing in front of Sherlock. Sherlock felt his skin crawl at the proximity, but he didn't move. "You  _don't._ You think you've built yourself a perfect little heaven with ordinary little John Watson, but you think that'll keep you interested? It won't be long before you're  _bored_ , darling, and then you'll come running to me." Jim smirked, fingers reaching up to stroke the side of his neck, where he knew John's bite marks were clearly visible.

He recoiled immediately, feeling ill, stepping back. "Don't," he spat. "Don't touch me, don't touch John, if you do, anything,  _anything_  to him- I swear I will make you wish you had never been born."

Jim giggled. "You're so  _in love_ ," he said. "Tell me, what's so good about him?" he stood on his tiptoes so he could whisper in his ear. "Is it the  _sex_? Does little Johnny spread his legs for you? Lets you fuck him?" Sherlock felt bile rising in his throat at his words, anger threatening to bubble out of his mouth like vomit, how  _dare he-_  "How does he like to be fucked? Do you make him  _be_ —"

But the rest of Jim's sentence was swallowed because someone had just come behind Sherlock, pushed him out of the way, and punched Jim so hard across his jaw that he crumpled to the ground, clutching his face.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, fear coating his stomach. He moved forward and grabbed John's arm to pull him away, but John was stronger than him, he had more muscle, and he wrenched out of Sherlock's grasp.

The people around them had parted, stepping back, but Sherlock couldn't care less about that. John had pulled Jim up from the ground, holding on to his collar, keeping him upright.

"John," Sherlock said again, urgently. John would kill him. John would  _murder_ Jim, and with about dozen eyewitnesses, it would be difficult to get John out of this. But John wasn't listening to him, he was looking at Jim with a sort of cold fury that chilled Sherlock to the bone.

Jim had blood pouring down his nose, down his lips, trickling down his chin and on to the ground. But he looked at John, gripping onto his collar, and  _laughed._

"The pet's so  _loyal_ ," he panted. "Is that why—"

"If you  _touch_ him again," John interrupted him, his voice low and calm and  _terrifying._  "If you so much as  _lay a finger_ on him, I will break more than your nose. Do you get that?" then he let go of him, shoving him so Jim stumbled, falling to his knees.

"Come on," John said, holding Sherlock's wrist, but they stopped when Jim spoke again.

"It's going to start soon, Sherlock," he said softly, kneeling and looking up at him, brown eyes manic and wide, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. "The fall."

"Don't listen to him," John muttered, trying to pull Sherlock away, but he stood frozen, an unexplainable fear making his blood run cold.

Jim grinned at him, gruesomely because of the crimson staining his teeth. "But don't worry," he whispered. "Falling's just like flying. Except there's a more permanent destination." he winked.

"I don't—" Sherlock started, insides turning to ice, but John pulled him more forcefully, dragging him away.

"I owe you a fall, Sherlock!"

"Just keep walking," John said quietly, hand around Sherlock's wrist as he walked quickly. "It's fine. He can't do anything to you."

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably.  _Oh, John. It's not me I'm worried about._


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock had spent a very long time feeling very, very lonely.

He had never realised this, of course. Until John Watson came along into his life, and Sherlock realised there had been an empty space there that John had filled up perfectly. And then Sherlock hadn't been able to stop himself from falling so hard and fast that his mind buzzed with the rapidity of it all.

That was why he was so very, very frightened that he was going to mess up and ruin this, what he seemed to have received so effortlessly, this rare, precious thing that he did not deserve. He wasn't going to let  _anyone_ take that from him, not Jim, not his parents, not anyone.

Because when he looked at John's hand, fingers curled up on the table, knuckles bruised and bloody, he felt so  _angry._ Angry that there was someone who could make John feel like that, do things that he normally did not do. That this was because of  _him,_ that John had hurt another person because  _he_ had hurt  _Sherlock_.

"Sherlock," John said softly, and Sherlock heard him, but he didn't say anything. He looked at John's hand, a hand that held him and touched him and punched other people across the face for him and Sherlock wondered how on  _earth_ he deserved someone like him.

"Sherlock," John said again, and Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. It's not even sprained."

He sighed. "You shouldn't have done that," he finally said.

John narrowed his eyes. "I should have done a whole lot more than that," he said coldly.

"No," Sherlock repeated, shaking his head, because why didn't John  _understand_? "You—I mean..." god, it was so  _difficult_ to give expression to this...this  _thing..._  " _You_ punched him, and  _you_ got hurt, because of me, don't you see, John?" he suddenly said urgently. "I don't want you to... _ever..._ getting  _hurt_ , because you felt like you needed to punish Jim for what he was doing, but you don't get it, I'm not—not for  _me,_ John—"

"You're an idiot," John said, and Sherlock shut up, because when John called him an idiot, it was usually because he was being an idiot.

"You would do the same thing for me, wouldn't you?" he asked, cocking his head to one side.

"Yes," Sherlock replied without hesitation.

"Then don't tell me I shouldn't do it."

Sherlock bit his lip. Then he nodded. And then John put his uninjured hand on his cheek and brought him close and kissed him.

Sherlock melted with a little sigh, because the great thing about John's kisses were that they were  _John's,_ and the very fact that  _John Watson_ was kissing him made it fantastic. And this, he decided, was what he needed to protect, what he needed to save, because the thought of going back to a life, that was lonely, and boring and had no  _John-_

So he opened his mouth and closed his eyes, letting himself be kissed, feeling John's hand move down his neck and curl around his nape and bring him closer, his tongue inside his mouth and their knees touching.

"I can punch someone without getting hurt," he mumbled, "I'm a rugby player."

"I didn't know rugby involved physical fighting," Sherlock replied and put his hand on John's wool-sheathed chest.

John pulled away, a grin on his face and Sherlock, like always, took a second or two to adjust himself to the fact that John's warm mouth was not on his anymore.

"You don't even know what rugby  _is,"_ John pointed out.

"It's a sport," Sherlock defended. "It's a sport, and there's a ball, somewhere- and you play it, and you wear those shorts when you do, and you look absolutely  _ravishing—"_

"Stop sidetracking me," John said, and kissed him again.

* * *

This was most definitely the best Christmas eve in the history of Christmas eves, John thought. It was past midnight, and he was drowsy and warm and comfortable, and Sherlock was stretched out next to him on the floor in front of the fireplace, content.

Which, in John's opinion, was the best possible Christmas present ever. Because Sherlock, content,  _happy-_ not bored, not annoyed, not itching for another smoke, it was...well, John just...

"Shut up, John," Sherlock rumbled next to him.

"I didn't say anything," John yawned.

"You're  _thinking._ I can hear it. It's an utter  _cacophony_. What are you thinking about?" Sherlock turned to him, eyes soft and grey in the firelight and slightly unfocused. He stifled a yawn.

"Technically, I was thinking about you," John admitted, blushing a little. Which was, quite frankly, ridiculous, because it wasn't a  _crime_ to be thinking about his boyfriend, for God's sake.

"About  _me_?" Sherlock echoed, his pink lips curling into a grin. He snuggled closer to John, throwing a leg over his hip and shifting closer. "What were you thinking about?" he said, his voice going half an octave lower, and goosebumps erupted on John's neck, where Sherlock's mouth was brushing across the skin.

"Just that...you're happy," John said, his voice hitching, and Sherlock's tongue licked a warm wet line below his ear.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I'm happy," his kissed John's chin. "I'm happier than I've been in years, and I'm happy about silly things like the pirate and the fact that you punch people for me, and that your hair is blonde and not quite blonde and that you're six inches shorter than me, and that your laugh is a bit high pitched, and that when you type you just use your index fingers."

John sighed, closing his eyes, letting the warm, soft reality of Sherlock Holmes wash over him. He was wearing some posh expensive blue jumper that clung to every bit of his torso, and old track pants that looked so good on him that it should have been illegal, and his hair was a glorious mess, and John just...he fell, he just fell even more.

"I'm not six inches shorter," he groused. "Four maybe."

"You're adorable," Sherlock said, and nibbled at his ear. John's hips gave an involuntary thrust.

"I remember you suggesting snogging in front of the fireplace," Sherlock said, licking at the shell of his ear. "I hope you intend to fulfil your promise."

"Come here," John said, and Sherlock climbed on top of him, grinning, curls falling over his face. He went down on all fours, knees on either side of John's hips, pinning his wrists on either side of his head.

"Sherlock," John said breathlessly, quite glad that his mother and his sister were asleep. Sherlock smirked, that special, special smirk, that seemed to be only reserved for John, and leaned down to kiss him.

Sherlock tasted like woodsmoke and tea and smelled like soap and faded cologne and that musky, sexy scent that was so very Sherlock, chemicals and science and impatience.

John moaned softly, as Sherlock kissed him slowly and lazily, prising his mouth open and sweeping his tongue inside, and John spread his legs just a little bit, as Sherlock pressed down on top of him, erection insistently straining against the fabric of his track pants.

Sherlock kissed him down the side of his mouth, up his chin, his lips hot and wet, just a hint of teeth scraping across his pulse, and then he whispered soft and seductive and licking in his ear,

" _I carry your heart,_

_I carry your heart with me-_

_I carry it in my heart._

_I am never without it anywhere_

_I go where you go, my dear, and whatever is done,_

_By only me is your doing, my darling."_

He kissed behind his ear, hands running up John's sides, grabbing the hem of his jumper and pulling it up. John groaned quietly, because Sherlock was reciting poetry, and his voice was just, it was _sex,_ it was dark, and it was so, so  _gorgeous,_ his voice had been  _made_ for it—

" _I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet-_

_I want no world, for beautiful, you are my world,_

_My true."_

" _Sherlock,"_ John rasped, and Sherlock pulled his jumper off, throwing it somewhere behind him, hands running down the thin material of the t shirt, palm warm as it slid down, resting somewhere beneath his crotch, and John reached up to tangle his hand in Sherlock's thick mop. Fingers brushed against his cotton-sheathed cock, and he was already so hard—

" _and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant,_

 _And whatever a sun will always sing is you."_  Sherlock palmed his erection,  _over his clothes,_ and John rutted against his hand, as Sherlock rubbed him slowly, achingly slowly, his voice weaving through poetry like chocolate or velvet or honey—or  _god fucking damn it—_

" _Here is the deepest secret nobody knows,_

_Here is the root of the tree and the bud of the bud—"_

John croaked something incoherent, as Sherlock's fingers moved slow and lazy over his cock, his lips sucking at his neck and murmuring in his ear. John eyes fluttered closed and his fingers tightened at the roots of Sherlock's curls, making his breath hitch as he recited.

" _and the sky of a tree called—_ " John had to stifle his cry as Sherlock gave a particularly slow stroke, drawing out pleasure just the way he did- so efficiently, so perfectly, so very  _Sherlock—_

_-"life, which grows, higher than the soul can hope,_

_Or mind can hide—_

"Fuck, Sherlock, Sherlock, I can't, I'm going to—" John whimpered, as Sherlock's teeth wrapped around his ear and gave a tug, his hand on his cock, the material of his tracks doing nothing to inhibit the friction, in fact, somehow Sherlock made it better, and John couldn't stop himself, he couldn't, his mind went blank—

" _and this is the wonder that's_

_Keeping the stars apart,_

_I carry your heart,_

_I carry it in my heart."_

When he came, it was over his clothes, in his trousers, for fuck's sake, and Sherlock kissed him while he did, so his moan melted inside Sherlock's mouth, his come on Sherlock's jumper and on his stomach, and Sherlock kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

And then when John went boneless, Sherlock smiled and said, "Happy Christmas, John."

John laughed.

"You couldn't have possibly given me a hand job for Christmas," he said.

"Are you complaining?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, rolling off, taking off his jumper. The t-shirt underneath was loose and stretched and old and he looked fantastic.

"No," John yawned. "I'm filthy. I can't believe you made me come in my pants."

"Take off your shirt and let's stuff it under the sofa," Sherlock advised.

"Come to my bedroom," John said.

"John Watson, is that a  _proposition?"_ Sherlock said salaciously.

"Git," John said fondly, and stood up, grabbing his jumper and Sherlock's filthy jumper, then took his hand and then led him to his bedroom, where the bed was made and quite suitable for sleeping, so why had they been on the floor anyway? He hoped there wasn't anything unsanitary left behind.

Sherlock went right ahead and collapsed on top of the bed and then beckoned him with a finger, probably aiming for seductive, but his movements were slightly uncoordinated, and he just looked cute.

"Sit here, I want to give you a present," he said.

"A  _present?"_ John repeated.

"Yes, John, don't be dull," Sherlock said impatiently. "That's what people do, isn't it? Presents? On Christmas?"

"I-uh—you didn't have to get me a present."

"Bit unfair of you to say that, John," Sherlock said primly. "When you've clearly bought me a present, and you've hidden it inside your wardrobe."

"How did you—" but then he stopped when Sherlock gave him an  _oh please_ look. "Okay, fine," he said, suddenly feeling nervous, because to be honest, his present suddenly seemed absolutely ridiculous and he didn't know whether he would like it, or—

"You could give me a sock and I would treasure it," Sherlock said reassuringly, and then patted the bed. " _Sit,_ John," he pouted.

"Okay," John said, and sat.

Sherlock stood up then, and looked at John for a few seconds, licking his lips.

"I-uh—"

John said, "You could give a sock and I would treasure it."

'Don't repeat my lines, it's rude," Sherlock muttered, and then stalked to John's desk and picked up his violin. Sherlock didn't seem to go anywhere without his violin. Apparently it's name was Newton.

" _Newton, as in, the scientist?"_

" _Yes, Sir Isaac Newton. Stop staring at me, I had to name him something. And this was before I met you, so I couldn't have named him John. And I can't rename him now, that would be terribly unfair._

" _You named your violin. You named it_ Newton. _"_

" _My skull has a name. Violin might as well have one. It's nice to be consistent. And Sir Isaac Newton was very clever."_

" _You're adorable."_

" _Shut up."_

"That's your violin," John said stupidly, as Sherlock unzipped the case and brought it out.

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock said under his breath, as he sat on John's chair and tuned it.

"You're giving me your violin?"

"Don't be daft. You may be my boyfriend but you most definitely are not getting my violin."

"It's good to feel wanted."

"You  _are_ wanted. You just can't have Newton," and then Sherlock tucked the violin under his chin. He took a deep breath. "I uh..." he bit his lip again. "I wrote you a song."

"You wrote me a song?" uh, John could have hit himself. Why was he repeating everything? Sherlock laid the bow softly across the strings, not playing.

"I wanted to give you something that only I could give you, and I know that I'm not the only person in the world who plays the violin, but no one lo-" his breath hitched for a second, and John's heart stopped beating, but Sherlock cleared his throat and continued speaking as if nothing had happened. "No one...what I mean to say is—well, no one knows you like I know you. And I wanted to make something that was just you, only you, because you are the most interesting person on the planet."

John swallowed. "I—Sherlock, that's—thank you," he finally managed to say, his throat closing up a little.

"I haven't even played yet," Sherlock said, and then he asked, "Shall I?"

"Yes," John said immediately, and Sherlock played.

When Sherlock played, when he  _really_ played, not just annoyed screeching, he would close his eyes and he would sway a bit from side to side, like he was doing right now, and it was so beautiful to watch, Sherlock lost in his own music, lips parted and eyes closed, not even seeing what he was doing—and John watched and listened. The song was sad at first, a melancholy, slow tune, that made him want to hug Sherlock and tell him that he can't be sad, he mustn't- that he would make him happy, that he would—and then the song picked up, and it became faster and lighter and  _happy-_ weaving and bouncing and chirping, and John grinned, he wanted to pull him close and kiss him, taste how Sherlock tasted when he was playing music, taste his laughter—

When he stopped playing, John didn't even notice.

"John?" Sherlock asked expectantly.

John shook his head. "I—that was beautiful, that was so beautiful, Sherlock," he said fervently. And Sherlock smiled that special shy smile of his, and he sat his violin carefully down on the table, then walked over to John and cupped his face and gave him a kiss.

"Happy Christmas. These have been the best two weeks of  _my life."_

 _I love you_ , John wanted to say. But he didn't. He kissed him back.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting at John's breakfast table without John and he was wearing a new watch. At first, of course, it looked like a very normal watch. But if you looked closer, you'd see something engraved on the strap.

_Brilliant._

_Fantastic._

And that, of course, made the watch a very special watch indeed. Because John was the only person on the planet who thought he was brilliant, who told him constantly, consistently, every day.

_You are amazing._

_You are brilliant._

_Fantastic, extraordinary._

Sherlock flexed and unflexed his fingers, thinking that he would never, ever take off his watch. Unless, of course, has was handling corrosive chemicals, in which case he would need to, for the safety of the watch. The safety of the watch was paramount.

He was thinking about the brilliance of the watch when John's mother came into the room. She looked surprised to see him.

"Oh good morning, dear, Happy Christmas," she said, and then came over and kissed his cheek. Sherlock was not used to this display of physical affection from adults, but Ms. Watson was the only person from whom this was acceptable.

"You're up very early," she said, stifling a yawn. "Would you like a cuppa? I'm making some tea," she bustled around the kitchen in her pink dressing gown, bringing down containers and spoons and other tea-making things that he had never seen his mother do.

"I would—I would love some, thank you," he said, as politely as he could.

"So, what did my son give you, dear?" she asked playfully. "I do hope he got you a present."

"He got me this watch," Sherlock said proudly, and held up his wrist to show her. He felt that everyone should know about the watch that John Watson had bought him. The watch that told everyone that the person who wore it was  _brilliant_ and  _fantastic._

John's mother was very impressed.

She made the tea and sat down at the table.

They sipped it in silence for a while, and she didn't prattle. She was very much like John in that way, she didn't babble. Which was good, because Sherlock detested babblers.

"Ms. Watson," Sherlock said after a long time. "Do you think John will join the army after he's older?"

She blinked at him, and then smiled softly. "You've seen the pictures on the mantelpiece, then?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I knew about it as soon as I met him. I didn't say anything, because, well," he shrugged, and looked insistently at his tea.

She sipped some tea. "John is very much like his father," she replied, after some time. "But in some ways he isn't. He was very young, you know, when his father..." she frowned at the cup like she was trying to remember something.

"I know," Sherlock said quietly.

"Well," she continued. "He doesn't remember much of him, but he hears a great many things from people- friends, and me, of course," she smiled. "We don't know what he'll do in the future, dear, but if you both are still—"

"We'll be together as long as he wants me," Sherlock said, a bit harshly then he meant to, and he blushed. "Sorry, I didn't—"

"It's alright, dear," his mother said, and she patted his hand. "What I mean to say is, there's no point being worried about it now."

Sherlock wanted to tell her that he couldn't  _not_ worry about it, that he had been thinking about it ever since he had looked at John and seen  _father, army_ in bright, flashing words on top of his head, and ever since he had realised that he would not be able to live without this boy. And  _chances of enrolling in the armed forces 78.92 %_ right underneath that. Because John was 16, and they would graduate in a year, and sometimes Sherlock couldn't help but think—it was selfish, and mean—but how would he do it, do  _anything,_ without John—

"Good morning," someone said in a grouchy, grousy, sleepy voice as he walked in and slumped into the chair next to Sherlock. "Happy Christmas, mum," John mumbled, and he yawned.

"Happy Christmas, dear," his mother said, and smiled, and she didn't even look at Sherlock, somehow knowing that Sherlock would hate for John to know what he was thinking; selfish things along the lines of  _I can't let him leave, ever._

"What have you two been talking about?" he said, and turned his head to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. "Good morning, you."

Sherlock looked at him and he saw John, hair mussed and eyes bleary and a sleepy, lazy, goofy smile on his face, looking at Sherlock like he was the best thing in the whole world, and sometimes Sherlock didn't understand this, how John could know everything and still look at him like that, smile at him, eyes shining. He was the luckiest person in the whole world. He saw John and he didn't see things like  _shaved with a blade_ and  _used the pink toothbrush_ and  _fell out of bed when he woke up_ he saw  _brilliant_ and  _boyfriend_ and  _love him._

"What are you looking at?" John asked.

"Your face," Sherlock replied.

"Yes, it's a very good face," John said, sounding pleased, which had quite been Sherlock's objective.

"Now, now, boys, no flirting at the table," Ms. Watson said firmly, and placed some tea in front of John. "Well, I'll be going out for a bit," she said, and stood up. "Sherlock, you'll stay for lunch."

"Yes he will, though I doubt how much he'll eat," John muttered.

Sherlock made a face at him. "You are so obsessed with  _food_ ," he complained, when John's mother had left.

"You should be more obsessed with it," John said right back, and stuffed a biscuit between Sherlock's lips.

"You're ridiculous," he replied, but he ate the biscuit, because eating the biscuit would make John happy.

John looked mollified when Sherlock swallowed. Then he stretched his arms and yawned. "I should give you a blow job," he said sleepily.

Sherlock stared at him. "At the breakfast table?"

John laughed. "No. But I should." he took Sherlock's chin in his forefinger and thumb and kissed him. "A Christmas present. Like yesterday," he murmured against his lips, his breath tasting like toothpaste and tea. "Though to be honest, it would be more of a present for me," he added, and caught Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled. Sherlock made a soft noise of assent, because this seemed like a very good idea indeed, and John was irresistible when he was in the mood for sex—

Someone cleared her throat. John sprung away from him, tanned cheeks the most adorable shade of pink. "Hi, mum," he mumbled sheepishly. Sherlock was annoyed at this sudden interruption but he tried not to be, because to be fair, snogging at the breakfast table had been forbidden.

Sherlock turned around and tried to look apologetic, but since he didn't usually feel apologetic he wasn't sure it came off very well.

"There's someone at the door, he says he wants to meet you," she said.

John frowned. And rightly so, Sherlock thought. How annoying.  _People._ "Who is it?"

"Oh, I don't know—what did he say his name was? Something with M. Something odd. Anyway, just go and meet him, he says he knows Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled deeply, "It's  _Mycroft."_

John groaned. "But it's  _Christmas,_ " he complained.

"Ah yes," John's mother nodded. " Mycroft. Yes. He's in the drawing room."

"It's  _Christmas,"_ John repeated urgently. "What is he doing  _here?"_

John's mother had left, which Sherlock thought wasn't a very wise thing to do, even if Mycroft  _wasn't_ here to murder them, but really, didn't she think it was unsafe to leave her son and his boyfriend in the hands of a strange, umbrella-carrying man?

He looked at John. John looked horrified.

"Let's just leave out the back door," he suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I bet he has Not-Anthea waiting there to make sure we don't try to run away."

John looked confused. "Who's Not-Anthea?"

"Exactly who I said she is. Come on, let's go see him."

Mycroft was waiting very patiently in the drawing room. He hadn't sat down, he looked impeccable and well-put together and he was tapping his umbrella on the floor. John tried to smile at him, and he wondered if he should wish him first, and then he thought how strange all of this was in the first place, and that there was nothing to be  _afraid_ of—

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded, practically stomping his foot. Mycroft smiled at the both of them, that half indulgent, half contemptuous smile that made John want to throw something at him.

"Hello, John," he said mildly, and shook his hand. John frowned at him.

"Not to sound rude or anything—" he started.

"No, please sound rude," Sherlock finished for him. "Be very rude." Then he slumped on the couch with a long suffering air and covered his eyes with his forearm. "Please deal with him," he ordered.

John shot him a look of annoyance, but Sherlock probably didn't see it. He was too busy doing his damsel in despair thing.

"Your mother was very hospitable," Mycroft said distractedly, twirling his umbrella. "I just came here to speak to you." He ignored Sherlock's mutter of "I thought you were busy shagging that police officer, but maybe he doesn't want you."

"Speak to  _me_?" John echoed.  _"Why_?"

"Why don't we go outside?" Mycroft said, in that special way of his, where he disguised a command as a request. Mycroft was the sort of person who thought giving outright orders was beneath his dignity.

So they went outside.

"John will tell me everything you told him, so there's no point being dramatic," Sherlock called after them.

When they were outside, John had to wrap his arms around his torso because he was cold. Mycroft wasn't cold. Sherlock said he never was. "It's because he's made of ice, John," he would say.

"John," Mycroft began, and they started walking around in the backyard. "A very Happy Christmas," he added, as an afterthought, and John wished him back, because it was the polite thing to do, but if Mycroft had  _really_ wanted him to have a Happy Christmas, he wouldn't have interrupted them.

"I apologise for the intrusion," he said, with that weird ability of his to read John's mind. Sherlock and Mycroft shared that annoying habit. "But I was in the area and I thought I'd drop in."

"Do you really 'drop in' anywhere?" John asked.

"No," Mycroft answered after a beat. "But this was important."

"Okay."

"I want to talk about Sherlock."

John felt the hair at the back of his neck prickle a little. "Of course you do."

Mycroft looked ahead as they walked, his umbrella making dull thuds in the grass. "I hope you know what you're doing," he said after a few seconds. John stopped.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, and he sounded defensive. He didn't mean to sound like that.

Mycroft stood in front of him, cold grey eyes searching his face. "Exactly what you think it means," he replied.

"I'm not going to leave Sherlock," John said firmly. "If that is what you're on about."

"Allow me to tell you something, John," Mycroft said quietly. "For sixteen years Sherlock was a rude little boy who threw tantrums and deduced people and got bored and used drugs and developed a smoking habit to stop being bored. Ever since you came along, he's become fascinated with you, and you keep the boredom at bay, and you make sure he sleeps and eats. I am very grateful, John, but I repeat what I just said:  _I hope you know what you're doing."_

"I don't understand," John said, because he didn't. He didn't understand where Mycroft was going with this, why he even  _entertained_ the idea that John would ever,  _ever—_

"What I'm  _saying_ , John," he said, his voice soft and slightly menacing, still sheathed in that thin cover of courtesy. Sometimes John forgot that Mycroft was a very powerful, very dangerous man. "Is that unless you have been very, very blind, you couldn't have not noticed that my brother is very much in love with you, and that puts you in a very, very, delicate position indeed."

"Sherlock isn't in love with me," he whispered, sounding horrified to his own ears.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I'll let you figure that out for yourself. But you must have noticed that I am very seldom wrong about anything. So I will take one more minute of your time and then I will leave," then he stepped a bit closer to John, invading his personal space, but somehow managing to keep the distance polite. "I am giving you the benefit of doubt, like I have done for the past few months. I am putting a great deal of trust in you, John," his eyes glittered. "Don't break it."

"I...I won't," John said. "I—I love him," he added, without being able to stop himself.

"I know," Mycroft replied smoothly, his lips softening in a smile. "That's why we're having this conversation at all. Otherwise I would have removed you a long time ago from my brother's life," he patted John's shoulder in what he probably thought was a friendly, non-threatening way, but John thought that Mycroft spent his entire day giving non-assuming threats to people.

"Happy Christmas, John," he said, and left.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mild violence.

Sherlock detested school. Sherlock thought that school was a hateful, boring place where you did hateful, boring things. School was, however, slightly more interesting when there was a John Watson in it, because John Watsons made everything so much  _better_. Especially when it was a John Watson you could pull close for a kiss or a wank or a hug.

Which was why Sherlock was having a decidedly atrocious time because  _there was no John Watson._ After a few moments of being terribly annoyed and wishing that John was there just so Sherlock could throw something at his head and demand why he had to go be and so  _mean_ and  _not come to school_. And then he spent the rest of his day being extremely worried because John usually did not do such things.

He even considered just escaping through the back gate and going to John's house to check on him, but then if John was perfectly fine it would be very embarrassing, and then  _John_ might get into a strop because he didn't like Sherlock missing classes, because he shared Mycroft's view of classes being A Very Important Thing.

So he scowled deeply and glared at his English teacher, who did not glare back at him and continued teaching, clearly  _ignoring_ Sherlock. Most people didn't ignore Sherlock. Sherlock was far too loud to be ignored, but clearly she excelled at it. Sherlock also wanted to say something cutting and brusque about her unpaid bills and the very apparent fact that her boyfriend was cheating on her with her _brother_ , but then this was one of those annoying things that John Did Not Approve Of. Sherlock found that it was a very nice thing to please John, although it was extraordinarily difficult when Sherlock was stroppy and sulking and John wasn't even here to  _see_ how hard Sherlock was working to please John and do things that he Approved Of. This annoyed him even more and he scowled deeper.

* * *

Sherlock had been in the empty chemistry lab, conducting an experiment when it happened. It was annoying to be doing things alone, because John usually complimented Sherlock and expressed interest in things and was, in general, extremely adorable and Sherlock loved him, but right now he was extremely bored and he didn't know what to do.

So he was in the lab, when someone interrupted him.

"Look at that. Where's your boyfriend, Freak?"

Sherlock froze. When he looked up, Carl Powers was standing in front of him, smiling maliciously. Sherlock didn't say anything, because he was alone and there were three other people behind Carl, and he deduced that right now, the only viable thing to do in this situation is to make a run for it. But the angle was all wrong. If he ran now, they'd stop him. So he kept his lips sealed and watched Carl, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, are you  _deducing_ now?" Carl gushed mockingly, and then he took the pipette out of Sherlock's fingers and dropped it on the floor. It made a tinkling noise as it cracked.

"Whoops," he said, and the three other students laughed behind him. Sherlock sighed.

"I assume there is a purpose to this," he said, dropping his now empty hand to the table and clutching the rim of it, keeping it between them.

Carl laughed. Sherlock took a step backward, away from the table, thinking that he could take the other door on the opposite end, they'd have to move past the other tables which would slow them down.

" _Purpose?_ " Carl echoed, and Anderson said, "He's trying to be a smartarse again."

"How's that cheek healing up?" Sherlock asked him brightly, and Anderson flushed. The satisfaction only lasted a moment, because then Carl gripped the collar of his shirt and pulled him back, the table digging painfully into his stomach.

"Listen here, you little shit," Carl spat at him, "I let you get away last time, but this time I'm not backing down so easy."

"Why, because you've got your cronies with you, now?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the people behind him. Which, he realised, a split second too late, was perhaps not the best thing to say because Carl made a noise of outrage at the insult and punched him right in the jaw.

Sherlock's teeth rattled with the force and he stumbled, the only thing keeping him somehow upright were Carl's hands fisted in his collar. Carl saw him wince, and grinned, pulling his arm back and landing another blow on his eye. Sherlock gasped this time.

"Careful," Sally said behind him. "Don't be so loud."

Which Sherlock had to admit, was a good idea, even as his entire face flared with pain. Maybe if he kept quiet, they'd just do what they wanted and leave. He could fight one person, easy, two, if he was clever (which he was) but four? Four was doubtful.

So he didn't do anything. He lifted his head and looked at Carl.

"Close the door," Carl said, and then tugged on him to bring him out of the safe zone behind the table. Sherlock didn't like where things were going. How could he escape? From this particular angle, he could elbow Carl in the throat and run, if only he'd loosen his hold a little-

Then Carl flung him on an empty bit of floor near the chemical cabinet, and Sherlock tried to take the opportunity to scramble to his feet and make a run for it, but someone stepped on his wrist and made things bit more complicated. Sherlock grunted, biting his lips to prevent himself from crying out, looking up. Anderson raised an eyebrow at him from above, and ground his foot down, and Sherlock hoped he didn't yelp with pain.

Maybe if he hooked his leg around his calf and pulled—but no, there was another boy behind them, he couldn't possibly do that and—Carl interrupted his thoughts by ramming his foot into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Sherlock gagged from the blow, barely able to get his breath back when Carl kicked him again.

"That should teach him to keep his mouth shut," Carl snickered, and landed another kick. Sherlock curled himself up small, trying to minimize the damage, brain working feverishly, wondering when Carl would stop—and then someone pulled him up- the boy behind him, surely. Sherlock wobbled, and the boy pinned his arms behind his back. Carl sneered at him.

"You need—three people—to fight me?" Sherlock wheezed at him, and Carl barked a harsh laugh and ran his knuckled into Sherlock's cheekbone.

"You can't stand straight and you're still being a dickhead," Carl told him gleefully. "You're such a delight, Holmes," and then he punched him on the other side of his face. Sherlock didn't know if struggling was going to get him anywhere. He wasn't built to fight, Carl had several stone on him, and the boy behind him was holding on pretty tightly. His eyesight went a bit fuzzy right about now, and it was difficult to breathe. He hadn't broken any ribs, but the pain down there might mean one or two were cracked. Carl made sure of that by aiming another punch against his ribs and Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and tried not to scream. He wasn't sure how many more times Powers hit him, only half aware of the sudden knock on the door that brought an end to it.

Sally yelped. "Get away from him," she said, and the boy let go of him. Sherlock fell to his knees, and tried to get his breath back and not crumple into a ball.

He heard the door click open, but he didn't look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor because it seemed too much of an effort to do much else.

"What are you doing here?" he heard Carl ask and then, "What have you done to Sherlock?"

_Jim._

"Nothing more than what he deserves," Carl answered, and then he walked forward, kicking Sherlock out of his way so that he fell on his side, wincing.

"He's hurt," Jim said slowly, menacingly, enunciating the  _t_ sound in disapproval.

"Yeah," Sally said. "That was the objective." Then she laughed.

"You shouldn't have done that," Jim said, and Sherlock got himself up on his palms somehow and looked at Jim, standing in front of Carl Powers; shorter, skinnier, and yet, and  _yet..._

"Go away, Jim," he said, with a great deal of effort, and he looked down at Sherlock, his lips quirking in an amused curve. His eyes were cold and blank as he scanned Sherlock's face, and he lifted his gaze back to Carl.

"You shouldn't have done this," he repeated.

"Oh yeah?" Carl challenged him, walking closer, trying to intimidate Jim. But Jim just laughed.

"You don't scare me, Powers." Then he put a palm on his chest and pushed him back. "Now, be a good boy and go to class and pray I don't do something I'll regret."

"Are you  _threatening_  me?" Carl replied, incredulously. "Seriously, Moriarty?"

Jim smiled, and then lifted his hand to curl it in Carl's collar and bent him down. Then he said something in his ear and Carl stiffened, pushing Jim back.

"You can't know that," he said, his voice shaking, face white.

Jim said nothing, continuing to look at him, amused, as if he was a silly little circus act that had been provided for his benefit.

"And  _yet_ ," he said absently, fiddling with his tie.

Carl took a great breath of air, and then moved back from him. "I'll get you for this," he snapped at him, but the threat seemed lost, and the rest of them followed Carl out of the room.

Sherlock wanted to get up and run off too, but his ribs hurt and he wasn't sure if he could stand up without scrabbling at the desk for support, which would make him look like a fool, so he just looked away.

"Oh tsk tsk," Jim said, and then walked in front of Sherlock. "Oh darling, look at you," he crooned, and lifted a hand to brush it across Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock flinched, recoiling. It caused a fresh flare of pain to rush down his cheek and jaw. "Go...away," he rasped, and moved back so he could lean against the table and look at Jim without injuring himself further.

"Oh but you're  _hurt_ ," Jim insisted, tucking a finger under Sherlock's chin and tilting his face up. "You're all bruised and Johnny isn't here to save you. Isn't it convenient that I am?"

Sherlock's lip curled in disgust and he tried to shift, but Jim held his chin more firmly with his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock's eyes searched his face, noticing the darkening under his nose, reminiscent of the bruise that John had landed there. He felt a fierce flare of pride at that.

"I can't tell you how good you look on your knees, Sherlock," Jim drawled, and Sherlock wanted to kick him in the shins and get out of here.

"What do you want?" he asked, gritting his teeth, refusing to break the eye contact.

"This conversation  _again,_ dear? Aren't you supposed to be smart? You know what I want. Now come on, up you get, let's get you fixed up." He let go of his chin and held out his hand instead.

Sherlock shook his head and said, "Oh piss off, Jim."

Jim raised his eyebrows and continued to look at him, amused. Sherlock was exhausted. Sherlock did not want to repeat this, over and over again, this pathetic game that Jim was playing. He would have punched him long ago, but his limbs hurt and his eyelids were heavy and he wanted to stay here for a little while longer, but Jim refused to leave. Instead, he grabbed his wrist, (the injured one) and Sherlock howled. Jim dropped his wrist and said, "oh, dear, I  _am_ sorry," and then took his other wrist.

Sherlock could do little to resist except make annoyed noises but it didn't help. Instead, once he was standing, (somewhat) Jim pushed him against the table he had been leaning against, hands on his hips in a bruising grip, as he said against his neck, "It's okay, darling, your boyfriend isn't here, he doesn't have to know."

Which made Sherlock push him back with his knee as he spat, "Go  _fuck yourself_ ," which wasn't something he normally said, but Jim was annoying him and he  _hated_ when he brought up any mention of John, because John didn't deserve that.

Jim giggled, the push having done nothing except loosen his grip on his hips a little. Sherlock wished desperately that he wasn't hurt, that he could stand without holding on to the table so hard, that everything didn't  _ache_ so much so that he could just kick Jim in his stomach and get away from his stifling proximity.

"That wouldn't be exciting now, would it?" Jim replied, eyes dancing with sickening amusement, as he grinded his hips against Sherlock meaningfully.

"Get off me," Sherlock said furiously, feeling ill, and then he lifted his elbow and rammed it into Jim's face.

Jim let go of him immediately, gripping his nose. "You little—" he started, but Sherlock pushed him off and limped towards the door, his ribs and his knees protesting. He didn't get very far, because Jim grabbed his wrist. Again, the injured one, and Sherlock let out a pained breath through his teeth.

"Don't," Jim told him, voice dropping dangerously, still strained because of Sherlock's elbow.

"Let go of me," Sherlock said quietly, trying to twist out of his grasp, regardless of the pain the movement was causing.

"Letting go of you was never my intention," Jim replied and tugged on his wrist to turn him around. He wasn't bleeding, which Sherlock regarded with disappointment, but he knew it hurt, and he hoped it hurt  _fiercely._

"I am not interested," Sherlock growled, and Jim smirked at him.

"Oh darling let's not be  _boring_ ," Jim drawled, and Sherlock scowled at him.

"Come now, you're hurt, Sherlock," he added, and tried to pull Sherlock against his side. "I'll take you to the Nurse's office."

Sherlock struggled, unable to stop himself from slumping against Jim's shoulder. "That's it," Jim urged him, and wrapped an arm around his waist, pinning him there.

"Get your fucking hands  _off_ me," Sherlock tried to push at him, but he was coming to the realisation that his wrist was probably sprained, hopefully not broken, and getting Jim away from him would be much easier if he didn't feel like he had been run over by a truck.

"I've hardly  _touched_ you, darling," Jim said, and pulled him towards the door. "Just till the Nurse, I promise. I'm afraid I can't have any fun with you when you're all...broken." Sherlock shivered at Jim's grip on his waist, and decided it wasn't worth the effort. Once he got some painkillers, he would be able to beat him to a pulp.

"John will kill you," Sherlock told him. "He'll  _murder_ you."

"Oh, but you won't tell him, will you?" Jim said, and drummed his fingers against Sherlock's hip. "You won't tell him because you're afraid it will make him fret, and you don't want that."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"And let's not pretend that just because I haven't done anything to John yet, I  _can't_ ," Jim murmured, and Sherlock's insides froze.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered, and Jim replied, "Wouldn't I?"

They were in front of the Nurse's office now, and Jim opened the door. He dragged them both inside, and Sherlock wanted to throttle him and demand to know what he planned to do to John.

"Mrs. Waters," he called, and the Nurse came forward, eyes widening at the sight of Sherlock.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Got into a fight," Jim answered.

"Seat him over there," she said, pointing to the sofa. "I'll be back."

When she was gone, Sherlock said, "You won't do anything to him," weakly trying to disentangle himself from Jim.

"I'm afraid that's my call, dear," he said, hands sliding below Sherlock's back.

"Don't—" Sherlock started, but Jim just smiled and patted his arse and then pushed him onto the sofa.

"I'll see you later, Sherlock," he grinned, and walked out.

Sherlock promptly leaned over and puked over the light blue carpet on the floor.

* * *

His ribs weren't broken, but they were bruised. He had a black eye and his face felt like pudding. In essence, he felt terrible and the one thing that would make him feel better was John. John was surely at home now, and he wanted John to pull him close and kiss him and make him feel less filthy and achy, but John would take one look at him and know what happened. And Jim, as much as he hated to admit it, was right, John would fret, and he didn't want that.

Then again, it was impossible that he would look normal by tomorrow and John  _would_ come to school tomorrow, (at least he hoped so) and the urge to see John was increasing by the minute. John would touch him and the ghost of Jim's touch would vanish and he would feel so,  _so_ much better.

But before that, he would have to get rid of Mycroft, because Mycroft would make a fuss when he saw his face, and that would be very annoying. Mycroft would make threats and  _interfere_ and become protective and generally make a nuisance of himself.

How, how would he get rid of his overbearing brother?

He had been standing at the gate for a while, and it had been two minutes since the bell had rung, and he wasn't here yet, so if he just—

And then a black car pulled up in front and Sherlock knew that running away would be a stupid idea. And besides, he thought, consoling himself, walking home seemed like an absolutely mad thing to do, especially when he felt like everything was broken, and considering his options, there were worse ways to spite his brother. Which he would employ. To make up for all of this... _coddling._

As soon as he sat inside, Mycroft asked sharply, "What happened?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, resting his head against the seat and closing his eyes. He wanted to curl up, but that would make his ribs hurt.

"Sherlock," Mycroft repeated, his voice going very low and dangerous, the kind of tone he used to threaten and intimidate people.

"Mycroft, don't be annoying," Sherlock said tiredly, and leaned his head against the window, breathing deeply.

"Where is John?"

"Don't you have surveillance on him? I thought you would know."

Mycroft kept quiet while he drove and asked him again, "Who did this?"

"It's none of your concern. Now stop talking, you're making my head hurt."

"You know I will complain to your school about this. I could make things very complicated for them. So why don't we forgo all of that unpleasantness, and you tell me who did this to you, and I will handle it all very neatly and quietly." Mycroft said this all very lightly, like he was discussing the weather, and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"But you won't," Sherlock argued stubbornly. "You will make life complicated for  _me._ I'm enough of a freak at school, Mycroft, I don't need my big brother making threats on my behalf."

Mycroft took a deep, irritated breath through his nose. Sherlock hoped he wouldn't pursue the topic further. The painkillers weren't working and he felt like vomiting again. Maybe he should. Vomiting in Mycroft's car would be a very pleasant way of getting back at him.

"Does it still hurt?" Mycroft asked, interrupting the scheming.

Sherlock shrugged in reply. "I'm fine," he said.

"I'll drop you off at John's then."

Which, Sherlock had to admit, was the best idea that Mycroft had had all day.

* * *

Harry gasped when she opened the door. Sherlock ignored the melodrama and pushed her gently aside to go inside the house. He was glad Ms. Watson was at work, it would be more difficult to ignore her.

"What happened?" Harry asked, and Sherlock ignored her question and asked instead, "Where is your brother?"

"In his room, he's sick," she answered, and then she tried to block his path when he moved towards the stairs.

"Wait, are you hurt?" which was a decidedly foolish question, because clearly he  _was_ , and he wanted to avoid all of this, because now apparently John was  _sick,_ and he couldn't just stand here and argue with his sister when he could be with John.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, and then to make up for it, patted her head and said, "Do well in school," and then he rushed up the stairs and threw John's door open. After throwing his door open, he realised that that might have been a bit not good because this made a great deal of noise and the lump of blankets on the bed made a startled noise and then John's head poked out of it.

He seemed to have been sleeping, and his hair was all mussed up and his eyes were bleary and red, and Sherlock loved him so much at that moment, was so  _relieved_ to see him, he actually closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, leaning against the locked door and letting the fact of John Watson wash over him.

"Sherlock?" John said uncertainly, and rubbed his eyes adorably. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you, mum wouldn't let me go and then I didn't want to disturb you since you were probably at school and you would come ru—" then he stopped and asked him, "What the fuck happened to your face?"

This Sherlock had been expecting sooner or later, so he said, the word sounding stale in his mouth by now, "Nothing."

"What in the world  _happened_?" John repeated urgently. "Get the hell over here," and then he sneezed very loudly and had to wipe his nose with the back of his hand.

Sherlock went over to John sullenly and sat on the edge of his bed. He could feel John's warmth radiating from his fevered skin, and he took a moment to just admire him, cheeks a bit flushed and dressed in old pyjamas, and then he registered that John was looking at him with something akin to horror. Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably. Surely it wasn't as bad as that?

"Who the hell  _did_ this?" John asked, brushing his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, ignoring John's question in favour of scooting closer and burying his face in John's neck. He instantly felt better.

"Sherlock?" John asked, sounding a bit alarmed, automatically wrapping an arm around his back and pulling him closer. "Sherlock, what happened? Tell me. Does it hurt? Sherlock?"

Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible, nuzzling John's collarbone and burying himself deeper until he was half on top of John. John brushed a hand across Sherlock's hair, not asking him anything else for a while, just letting Sherlock breathe in his scent, which he was so grateful for. John continued to stroke his hair and then moved his fingers up and down Sherlock's back soothingly, and Sherlock took a contended sigh. He was right, he was  _so_ right, one touch and John had made every unpleasant thing that happened today  _vanish_.

"I missed you," Sherlock said solemnly, and fisted his hands in John's T-shirt.

"Get into the bed," John told him, and Sherlock wanted to argue and tell him that John was ill, therefore clearly he should be in the bed, and Sherlock would make matters worse by occupying the bed as well, but John put a finger on his lips and said, "Just do what I tell you."

And to be honest, Sherlock couldn't think of a better thing to do than kick off his shoes and get under the covers with John and snuggle into his chest and breathe him in some more.

John put an arm on his waist and pulled him closer, and Sherlock burrowed as deep as possible into him, until everything smelled like John, and John was against him, warm and soft and pliable and he wondered how on earth he would be able to cope with  _anything_ if he didn't have John Watson to bury himself in.

"Will you tell me what happened, please?" John asked, carding his fingers through his hair.

"You're sick and you'll worry and get yourself sicker," Sherlock told him wisely.

"Sherlock, you have a  _black eye_ ," John replied urgently, as if it was the worst possible thing that could happen to Sherlock. And then he held up his tightly bandaged wrist gingerly and said, "Your wrist is  _sprained_."

"I've had worse," he mumbled, closing his eyes, and removing his wrist, pretending to be asleep.

"It was Powers, wasn't it?" John's voice went hard.

"No," Sherlock replied too quickly, and John stilled against him.

" _Powers,"_ he echoed, and then, spitting it out like poison, "I'm gonna kill him."

"No, you won't," Sherlock shifted so he could look at John. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was turned down in a scowl, and Sherlock wanted to kiss the scowl off his face but instead he said, "Just ignore it. He'll get his friends and he'll hurt you and you won't be able to..." he shook his head. "It's a terrible idea."

"Have you seen your  _face_?" John asked him, and brushed a finger over the bruise on his jaw. Sherlock winced and John drew his hand back guiltily. " _Sherlock_ ," he said helplessly, and Sherlock just closed the distance between them and kissed the distressed line of John's mouth.

John kissed him back immediately, cradling the back of his head and tightened his grip around his waist so he could pull him closer. Sherlock felt like he was falling, and it was a  _good_ feeling, kissing John like this so that the world started spinning again and everything was  _right_. He snogged him thoroughly, and John hitched a leg over Sherlock's hip and Sherlock sighed and melted, kissing John slowly and lazily, lips moving languidly over each other.

"Stop trying to distract me," John sputtered, as Sherlock kissed down his jaw and his neck.

"I'm not," Sherlock said defensively, and sucked a bit at John's pulse.

"You're such an annoying git," John muttered, and pushed Sherlock back gently. Sherlock found this an unfair move on John's part because he had had the most  _terrible_ day and what he needed was John, but John was intent on wasting their time  _talking._

John smiled at his expression and told him, "You're hurt, let's take it easy."

Sherlock scoffed at him. "I'm  _fine_ ," he insisted, and then he tried to do some complex manoeuvring so he could burrow deeper into John and that made his ribs hurt and he winced.

John raised his eyebrows. "Absolutely not. Come on, close your eyes. Go to sleep."

Sherlock hoped he was able to impress upon John the idiocy of his comment through his expression. John yawned at him and said, "We're going to talk about this, and I am going to do horrifying things to Carl Powers once I get back to school tomorrow, but my head hurts now, so let's go to sleep." Then he snuggled closer to Sherlock and closed  _his_ eyes.

"You're not serious, are you," Sherlock asked him and John said against his shoulder, "How is Moriarty's nose?"

"Still bruised," Sherlock replied instantly. He felt John smile against his shoulder.

"Then yes, Sherlock, I am serious." Then he kissed his collarbone and Sherlock felt his body relax, which possibly meant that John was asleep. He wanted to have  _this_ conversation, because he was supposed to ensure that John didn't decide to do something stupid.

"John," Sherlock said, and poked him in the shoulder. John made a rumbly sort of noise but didn't do much else. Sherlock came to the conclusion that although it was very possible to speak while one person wasn't listening, John would be boring and complain and tell him that he should have waited for him to wake up.

So he decided to let him sleep, and instead, he lay awake, listening to him breathe, unable to shake off that uneasy feeling that  _something bad is going to happen_.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for shoddy police research because I'm lazy. if anyone wants to correct me for how I've made things work here, please tell me, and I'll do my best to make it sound realistic.

John might have missed a few easy shots because he knew Sherlock was watching the practise, which, in general, was not the kind of thing he indulged in. But Sherlock had developed this new habit of Following John Everywhere _, (_ he was sure Sherlock had a reason, but he wasn't going to get into that now)which, to his surprise, also included sitting on the benches in his annoyingly tight jumper and trousers and watching him play. But then he also scored a really fantastic goal, and he shot a grin to Sherlock while his mates clapped him on the back and Sherlock was sitting too far away for him to see his expression, but John was pretty sure he grinned.

It was a good morning, John decided.

"You look a mess," Sherlock informed him, when John came trudging up to him from the field.

"Shut up," John replied, slumping down on the grass.

"I am finding you terribly attractive right now, John," Sherlock told him, and when John turned to him with a very disbelieving look on his face, Sherlock looked back, evidently quite serious.

"Really?" John asked. "Mud? Sweat? This does it for you?"

Sherlock looked offended, as if having a sexual reaction to mud and sweat was somehow ordinary and boring.

"It's not just the  _mud,_ " he clarified. "It's just this general state of," he waved his hand dismissively. "You just look very snoggable, John," Sherlock looked satisfied with his justification. John loved it when Sherlock looked pleased with himself. Most people found it annoying, but John thought it was  _adorable._ Something was clearly wrong with him.

"Snoggable?" John repeated, waggling his eyebrow suggestively.

"John," Sherlock said, in his exaggerated drawl, and then stood up, brushing grass off his trousers.

"Where are you going?" John asked, looking up at him. Sherlock looked down, and his lips turned up in a crooked smile, which was John's second favourite smile.

Sherlock held out a hand and John immediately grabbed it, and Sherlock pulled him up. "I really need to snog you right now," he declared, and then John was not really aware of what happened, because he was too busy trying to hide the erection in his shorts because Sherlock really did have a way with words, but somehow they were in a secluded part of the grounds, half hidden by a concrete wall covered with ivy and Sherlock had him shoved up against it and his lips were on John's, feverish and frantic.

John wasn't too overly concerned with being seen, because it was far too early in the morning and no one was here yet, and anyway, Sherlock was kissing him and that was good...that was more than good.

"It's the shorts," Sherlock said into his mouth, and nibbled his lower lip, slipping his hands under John's T-shirt and placing them against the swell of his ribs.

"What?" John asked, because he didn't want to have a  _conversation_ , not when Sherlock was kissing him like this and touching him like this and he was pressed up against him in all the right places and why did Sherlock have to smell so  _good_ all the time?

"The  _shorts_ , John," Sherlock repeated, and kissed down his neck, lips hot against his damp skin, and John pulled at his jumper until Sherlock got the hint and pulled it over his head.

"Which shorts?" he asked, genuinely confused, even as Sherlock groped his bottom and sucked at his neck. He flailed a bit and tugged at Sherlock's hair, trying to concentrate on his mouth which was doing all sorts of sinful things on his throat, but then he had to bring up  _shorts_ and John was very disapproving of all this.

" _These_ shorts," Sherlock purred, and dropped to his knees, hooking his fingers into his waistband and pulling his shorts down. John gave a breathless laugh at the sudden moment of realisation and then the laugh turned into a gasp and a gurgle when Sherlock closed his lips around him and sucked.

"We'll be—we'll be—" he tried to construct a proper sentence, but then Sherlock was really brilliant at this and instead his hands went to his hair and he pulled until Sherlock made a sort of low growl at the back of his throat and did something fantastic with his tongue so that John had to bite his lip from crying out.

Sherlock slipped his lips wetly off his erection, and looked up at him, eyes sparkling with amusement, and he said, voice low and predatory, "No one can hear you," which at that moment seemed like the most filthiest thing John had ever heard in his life, and when Sherlock took him in his mouth again John could barely hold on any longer and he came, with a breathless groan of Sherlock's name, because Sherlock had told him that no one could hear them, and, well.

Then Sherlock did what he usually did because John was too much of a mess to usually do it, which was fix his clothing for him and try to make his hair look like he hadn't just been given a blowjob by his boyfriend in a half-hidden corner of school.

"You have a thing for public sex," John told him, when he had gotten his breath back and made sure there weren't any suspicious stains on his shorts.

Sherlock made another one of his  _how dare you accuse me of something so ordinary_ expressions. "Don't complain, John," he muttered, and pulled on his wrinkled jumper. The wool made his hair stand up every which way and John tried to run his fingers through it and make the mop look more presentable but he only succeeding in making it messier so instead he just stood on his tip toes and pecked Sherlock on the lips.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms around John's waist to keep him there, deepening the kiss. John laughed against his mouth and Sherlock's tongue took the opportunity and soon he had him pushed up against the wall again, and John was giggling under him, hand in his hair because the best thing about this was being able to  _do_ that, and Sherlock made a great deal of incoherent noises which John took as encouragement and switched them around so that Sherlock was pinned against the wall instead.

"How much longer do we have?" John asked him, kissing a spot under his ear.

"Ten-fifteen—minutes? Seven?" Sherlock babbled some more numbers at him so John decided that it would be enough and reached for Sherlock's fly.

* * *

John was sure that Sherlock thought that he had dropped the whole Carl Powers issue. John hadn't mentioned it since last week, and maybe Sherlock had assumed that this denial that Sherlock had almost been beaten to a pulp meant that John had just dropped it. He hadn't. John didn't just  _drop_ things. Not when they were  _this._ Not when Sherlock had winced several times when they were snogging and John was an  _idiot_ for not having noticed that, especially when Sherlock was still sporting a brilliant bruise on his cheekbone and the skin around his eye was still a mottled shade of purple. His wrist was still  _bandaged,_ for Christ's sake, how could Sherlock think he had  _forgotten_ about it?

As far as he was concerned, if Sherlock believed that it was all water under the bridge, that was fine with John, because John didn't need Sherlock knowing that he planned to beat Carl to a pulp. There was a very good plan inside John's head, and he didn't think about all the possible consequences because he wasn't going to step back from this.

Jim Moriarty blocked their way when they were entering English, smirk on his face. John noticed with disappointment that his nose seemed perfectly fine now. He should have broken it. But Jim wasn't looking at him, he was looking at Sherlock, and John felt Sherlock stiffen next to him.

"Hi," Jim said, eyes roving over Sherlock's face. "You look a bit different," he giggled, and then, winked at John.

"Get out of our way," John told him calmly.

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Your boyfriend is  _rude,"_ he complained to Sherlock.

"Get out of our way," Sherlock repeated, and his voice sounded icy and cold and much scarier than John's.

Jim huffed a laugh and stepped aside, making an extravagant hand gesture. "I'll let you win the petty battles, boys," he trilled. "It's so much more fun when you think you have it all figured out. Frankly, it's adorable."

"How's your nose?" John asked him cheerfully.

Jim narrowed his eyes. "Not broken," Jim answered. "Which, unfortunately, I can't say for your boyfriend."

John had him shoved against the doorframe with his elbow at his throat before he could stop himself. He was barely aware of the sudden flurry of activity the action caused, and Sherlock made a sound of alarm and said, " _John_ ," urgently, but John didn't really care.

"You did this?" he hissed at Jim, and Jim laughed, or as much as he could, with John blocking his supply of air.

"Tell him to stop," someone yelped.

"John, let go of him," someone else said, and it sounded vaguely like Victor.

" _Was it you_?" John asked him again, and Jim still didn't say anything, just smirked. John tried not to kill him, but it wasn't easy.

"John, that's enough," Sherlock said worriedly, and then he saw Victor come between them and say calmly, "Let's take this outside," and John snapped at him, "I am not taking this  _outside."_

"John, stop. Please," he heard Sherlock say behind him, his voice sounding urgent and worried. So John stepped back from Jim, and Jim cleared his throat, that annoying smirk still on his face.

"I told you it was Powers," Sherlock said quietly, and when John turned around, Sherlock was looking at Jim like he was something filthy under his shoe. Jim looked at his watch and said, "Don't we have class?" airily, and then he went to the back of the class and sat down.

"Mate, what's your deal with him?" Victor asked, looking between the both of them.

"There's no  _deal,_ " Sherlock snapped out, and now John felt a little bit guilty, because the morning had started so spectacularly, Sherlock had been in a good mood, and now Sherlock looked sour and annoyed about this whole episode. He made a noise of enormous disgust at all the fuss that was being made and swished away from John.

Victor's eyes followed him and then he looked back at John. "It looks like there's a deal," he said wisely.

John rolled his eyes. "Doesn't that bloke seem off to you?"

Victor looked uncomfortable. "I don't...yeah, maybe a bit," he said uncertainly. "But you need to stop attacking him like that, mate. You don't want him to take it up with Blake."

John shrugged. "He can take it up with whoever he likes. If he'll leave Sherlock alone, I'll leave him alone."

Victor looked at Sherlock, who was now sitting at his preferred seat with his arms crossed, scowling at the blackboard. Victor pursed his lips like he was going to say something important, but instead he just said, "Yeah," which John didn't find very helpful.

"So you and Henry, huh?" he asked him, and it seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, but this conversation was far too awkward and John babbled when he got nervous. So it slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it and now Victor blinked at him.

"Oh my  _god,"_ he complained, and then walked away, blushing furiously.

John, satisfied that the conversation had come to an end, went and sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock refused to acknowledge him. He continued to scowl at the blackboard. And then walked in to the classroom to start class and Sherlock pretended to be far more interested than he ought to have been.

"Sherlock," John whispered to him.

Sherlock glared at the blackboard.

"Are you angry?" John asked, which was a stupid question, because  _obviously_ Sherlock was angry, but he couldn't see  _why,_ because this was Moriarty they were talking about, and he obviously deserved that.

Sherlock snorted. "I don't know John," he whispered back. "am I?"

"I'm not a genius like you, you'll have to tell me," John replied, losing his patience a little bit.

"How can you be so  _stupid_?" Sherlock snapped at him suddenly, and John blinked. Sherlock very rarely used that tone of voice on him, in fact, well, never. Which meant that Sherlock was fairly angry about this whole thing, and John didn't know whether this was unfair on his part or if John had overstepped some arbitrary mark on their relationship which he hadn't realised existed.

"Stupid?" he echoed, disbelievingly, feeling irritated.

"You are letting him  _get to you_ ," Sherlock spat, turning a page rather violently. "It's what he  _wants._ "

"Yeah, like I give a rat's arse about what Jim Moriarty wants," John gave a harsh laugh.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and they glinted in a way that John didn't like. Sherlock's lips twisted into a scowl and he said, "Well, maybe if you did, I wouldn't have been thrown around like a rag doll."

John froze. Sherlock froze. John saw that Sherlock regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth, and a very small, rational part of him told him that sometimes people said things that they didn't mean, and the smart thing to do now was to wave it off, but the larger, sentimental part of him that was hopelessly in love with Sherlock twisted his heart uncomfortably and John flinched at the acid in Sherlock's tone.

"No, wait—" Sherlock started, after a few seconds of shocked silence. "No, John, I—"

"I need to get out of here," John mumbled, and then he grabbed his bag and whipped out of the classroom. He heard Mrs. Blunt call him back, but he didn't care. He just kept walking down the corridor, with absolutely no idea where he was going. All he was aware of was this dull ache somewhere in his chest and this venomous feeling of guilt that was threatening to overwhelm him.

Sherlock was right. Except he said that it had been Carl Powers, that Jim hadn't been involved...but how did that matter? And in any case, Jim seemed to be involved in everything, and it wasn't difficult to believe that he had had a hand in this. And John had punched him.  _Threatened_ him. So many times. Was it such a stretch of imagination that Jim would take it out on Sherlock?

John leaned against the wall in the empty corridor and scraped a hand over his face. When did everything get so  _complicated_? Why couldn't they just be together and not have to worry about all this _drama_ that seemed to follow them around? If John hadn't lost his temper with Jim, would Sherlock have still been fine now? If he was the reason why...maybe if it would be better if...no.  _No._ That was the most absurd direction his thoughts could take. Yes, Sherlock was right, this was his fault, but that didn't mean he would just  _give_ Jim what he wanted on a silver plate.

And there went John's plan of making Carl wish he had never been born. If he went and had a go at him now, Sherlock would find out and this would get even worse. On the other hand, if John just _ignored_ it, what if Carl did it again?

John would have turned around and gone back to class. John was willing, at that moment, to let it all go for Sherlock's sake. The whole thing would have ended there, but then the door next to him opened, and Carl Powers walked out with another girl with black hair who John didn't recognize. Their hair was wet, the both of them clearly fresh from swimming practise.

John should have ignored it. John was going to realise that later.

Carl turned around and realised John was standing there, a grin still on his face from something funny the girl must have told him. The grin faltered a bit. "Watson," he greeted him jovially. The girl looked a little uncomfortable, trying to avoid eye contact with John.

"Powers," John nodded stiffly at him.

"I'm sorry about your boyfriend," he said lightly, and John clenched his fists.  _He's trying to get a rise out of you, don't give in to him._

"I'll tell him that," John said tightly, trying to smile.

Carl raised his eyebrows. "I can't believe you're still hanging around with that faggot," he mused, turning around to face John, eyes bright with amusement. "I mean, I thought breaking a few of his bones would have helped in that department, how's his wrist, by the—"

That was when John punched him so hard on his jaw that Carl fell.

"Hey!" the girl exclaimed, kneeling down. "Carl, are you—"

"I'm fine," he snapped at her, pushing her away. He wasn't fine, in fact. There was blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. John's knuckles stung painfully, but he didn't run.

"Get up, then," John told him brightly. "You want to have a go at me? Be my guest."

Carl did, in fact, have a go at him. He stood up and tried to punch John but John avoided it easily, and shoved him against the wall, gripping on to the collar of his shirt tightly.

The girl yelped. "Look, you really shouldn't—"

"You don't touch him again," John said calmly to Carl, like they were discussing the weather. "You don't touch him, because I will kill you if you do."

Carl scowled at him and said, "The both of you deserve each other."

"I know," John replied lightly, and brushed off his shirt. "Thank you for your wishes."

Then he waved jauntily at the girl who was staring at him with something akin to horror, and walked away.

* * *

Sherlock stubbed his second cigarette under his foot in frustration. This was turning out to be a most tiresome day. John was never going to speak to him again. John was going to break up with Sherlock and run away into the sunset with Sarah because Sherlock was doing a terrible job of keeping John happy.

He had been angry, of  _course_ he had been, because Jim seemed to get everything he wanted, and he was so  _clever_ about it, he did it all so effortlessly, and if Sherlock didn't despise him so much, he might have even admired him.

Of course, hiding from John wasn't really helping their reconciliation, and smoking was  _definitely_ not going to help in that direction, but Sherlock was annoyed and irritated and he wanted to apologise to John, but what if John didn't accept his apology? So he smoked. Which was obviously a bad idea but Sherlock seemed to be running dangerously low on good ideas.

He decided not to smoke a third cigarette, because two was better than three, wasn't it? John would appreciate the effort, wouldn't he? Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in annoyance. Then he heard someone walking through the woods noisily, leaves crunching. Two people, he decided. This was annoying. He liked the woods because they were  _quiet._ Anyone other than John at this moment was unacceptable. It made for far too much stupid in one place.

He heard giggling. Girl. Boy. Obviously here for snogging, he thought venomously. Possibly he found this disagreeable because he wasn't being able to snog John.

It was Sarah. And some other bloke. Sarah saw him leaning against the tree and gave him a horrible fake smile, which Sherlock found vaguely frightening.

"Sulking here all alone?" she cooed. Sherlock wanted to throttle her. Sarah didn't like him. Which was fine, because he didn't like her either. "Where's John?"

"I don't know," he snapped. "I don't follow him around every hour of the day." He sounded too defensive. Sarah noticed. She looked a bit alarmed.

"Have you two been fighting?" she asked, and the bloke looked a bit confused.

"We're  _fine,_ " Sherlock said bitterly, and then decided that this had gone on long enough and he would need to apologise to John. Or speak to him, at least. He didn't need people like  _Sarah_ assuming that they were anything  _but_ fine.

He checked his watch. He had been sulking all day in the woods, and usually sulking put him in a good mood, but this was a  _genuine_ sulk, and besides, John hadn't been there to witness it, so it was pointless. Sherlock worried at his bottom lip as he looked for John, hoping that what he had said hadn't damaged their relationship beyond repair.

He was in the corridor by the swimming pool when he felt something prickle at the back of his neck. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the deserted corridor.

He narrowed his eyes, wondering why everything seemed so suspiciously  _quiet._ He turned around, and saw some other students walking past, and then he looked ahead. The door to the swimming pool was open, which struck him as odd, because it was usually closed. But it was surely nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock walked some more until he was in front of the open door. The room was empty, lights off, not a single soul inside, the water calm, reflections glinting off the walls. Then Sherlock noticed something in the water. Should he check? No, he was supposed to be looking for John. Besides, it was a trick of the light, it must be.

But he couldn't just ignore it. So he walked slowly to the edge of the pool, steps echoing eerily in the empty room.  _Something's wrong_ , Sherlock thought, and then he looked at what was floating in the water.

It was a body.

Sherlock stepped back, his insides turning to ice. He swallowed.

Absolutely not. Impossible.

Sherlock stood there, frozen in shock, when someone stepped in to the room. He looked up immediately, and the girl who had come in blinked at him. His expression must have given something away. "Are you alright?" she asked, and then walked up to him, "I just left something here—" she mumbled absent mindedly, and came too close to the pool and Sherlock suddenly said, "No, go away," trying to push her back.

She stopped in her tracks. "Excuse me?" she asked, blue eyes narrowed under her fringe of black hair. "I just came here to get some—what is that?" she moved Sherlock out of the way before he could stop her, and then she screamed.

"No, stop—" Sherlock tried, but she screamed and screamed.

"Is that  _Carl_?" she cried. "That's fucking  _Carl_!" she screamed again, and stepped back from the pool. "You fucking lunatic! Jesus, did you do this? Oh  _my god!"_ she covered her mouth with her hands and stepped back from Sherlock like he was going to hit her.

" _What_?" Sherlock exclaimed. "Wha-no, I didn't—this wasn't me," he tried to get closer to her but she screamed again and stepped back.

"It was  _John,"_ she wailed, "Oh my god—"

Sherlock didn't have time to process what she had just said because there were sudden footsteps echoing down the corridor outside, and he knew  _exactly_ what this looked like. Except hiding would make it even more suspicious, so he stood there, feeling off balance and trying to figure out how in the world Carl had drowned when he was an accomplished swimmer.

A few teachers stopped outside the door, looking at the scene in front of them, and then Mr. Blake walked in, looking between the two of them.

"What is going on?" he asked, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself when the girl screamed, "It's Carl! He's dead!" she pointed to the pool with a shaking finger and then added, "I think he killed him, I heard him say he would," in a low whisper, and Sherlock looked at her in shock, because when had he said that?

"What?" Blake walked to the edge of the pool and when he saw the body he took a sharp breath.

"How am I supposed to have killed him?" Sherlock snapped. "I was here for barely a  _minute_ ,"

"That's enough time to push him in!" she shrieked, and then she started sobbing.

Sherlock was too shocked to point out the ridiculousness of her assumption, so he just stared at her, while Ms. Blunt came up to her and put an arm around her shoulder.

"It's alright, now, come, get up," she said.

"Call his parents," Blake said tightly. "He's dead."

"It's a  _murder,_ " Sherlock told him urgently, perhaps more harshly than he should have. Blake turned to him with narrowed eyes. "Powers is a national level swimmer, he didn't  _drown._ The body's still afloat, it can't have been too long, you need to— _"_

"Call the police," he said, looking at the teachers. "His parents will call them anyway. Quick." And then, "You," he pointed at Sherlock. "In my office. Now."

"I didn't kill him," Sherlock repeated, and tried not to tremble. He didn't  _tremble._ This was all just a huge misunderstanding and Mycroft would step in and this would all be fine and  _where was John?_

"We'll have a talk about it son," Preston replied, clapping his shoulder. "I'm sure the police will want to speak to you."

"I didn't kill him," Sherlock said again, but no one seemed to hear him.


	18. Chapter 18

John had been looking for Sherlock when Ms. Blunt had caught up with him and told him that he was needed in the office.

"What did I do?" he asked. Sherlock had probably stolen frogs from the Biology lab again. It always came back to him. Why did people just  _assume_ that John knew where the frogs were?

"Mr. Blake will fill you in," Ms. Blunt promised him, which sounded a bit ominous, but John was used to these things by now. It was inconvenient, though, because he needed to find Sherlock, but he knew he would wait. Complain incessantly about waiting, of course, but he would.

He didn't expect to find Sherlock in Blake's office either.

He was sprawled on the chairs in front of the empty desk, legs stretched out and long fingers drumming on his knee. He had rolled his jumper and his shirt up to his elbows, and he looked tired. John felt almost relieved to see him. Sherlock lifted his eyes to look at John when he entered the room, closing the door behind him.

"Joining me?" he asked, his lips twitching.

"What's going on?" John replied, because something about the expression on Sherlock's face, the tense line of his shoulders, screamed  _wrong._

"They didn't tell you anything?" Sherlock asked, his voice low. His gaze dropped, and he started drumming his fingers again. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall in front of him, and John felt like he didn't want him here, that something was enormously wrong, and John didn't know how to fix it. He still felt their previous argument like a weight on his chest, but now definitely didn't seem like the time to think about it.

"Tell me what?" John asked, stepping closer to the desk.

Sherlock still didn't look at him. He addressed the wall, and said in a blank, flat voice, "Carl Powers is dead."

John blinked, "What?"

" _Dead,_ John," Sherlock snapped, and then, "They think I did it."

Dead?  _Dead_? John stared at Sherlock. "I spoke to him barely an hour ago," John whispered, his insides feeling cold, collapsing into the chair. He was blocking Sherlock's view of the wall now, so he had no choice but to look at him. Grey-blue-green eyes searched his face. Sherlock's features were set in a frigid, untouchable mask, and John felt helpless. "Sherlock," he said, because he couldn't say anything else.

"An  _hour_ ago?" Sherlock repeated. His eyes went off-focus, they were on John, but he was thinking about something else. "Then whatever he gave him must have taken effect quickly...that narrows our options. If they'd just let me look at his things..."

"Sherlock, why do they think you did it?" John asked, and then Sherlock's gaze slid to him, feverish with thoughts. His eyes were on him, but he was barely looking at John. And John was used to that, when Sherlock was thinking, John didn't interrupt, and he didn't feel offended, because being with Sherlock meant you had to let him do what he did best; but this was different, this felt  _wrong._

"Of course they think I did it," he said bitterly. "I found the body. He drowned in the pool. And I'm the freak. Who else would have done it?" His fingers curled frustratedly in the fabric of his trousers.

"You're not a freak," John told him automatically. Sherlock looked at him, then, his gaze softened only slightly, and John wanted to kiss him then, even though this was the most terrible time to kiss him, but he still felt guilty, and now Carl Powers was dead, and they though  _Sherlock_ had done it, and now Sherlock was referring to himself as a  _freak_ again, and this was wrong, all of it was so wrong, wrong, wrong.

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, when the door opened. Both of them snapped their heads up to see Blake walking in, followed by a tall, grey haired, tired looking man who looked extremely familiar.

" _You_?" Sherlock snapped, looking at Lestrade. "What are you doing here?" Blake looked between the two of them with raised eyebrows.

"You know each other?" he asked.

" _Know_ each other?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. "Of course we  _know_ each other. He's sh-"

"We met him once before," John said loudly, sending a pointed look at Sherlock. Sherlock scowled, but kept quiet.

"Hello, Sherlock," Lestrade said tiredly, and John didn't blame him. But he felt a little better. Obviously, if Lestrade was looking into the murder, (and it had to be a murder) he couldn't possibly suspect Sherlock. "John," he nodded at John, looking frankly a little relieved to see him. John could only imagine why. Dealing with Sherlock alone was not easy.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade," Blake said, gesturing to him. Lestrade stood in the office, hands in his pockets, looking at the both of them, especially Sherlock, carefully.

John stood up from his chair, but Sherlock remained sprawled on his, regarding Blake and Lestrade, eyes narrowed. "Yes," he said. "You've called the police. I know. You didn't exactly make a secret of it, sir. Are Carl's parents here? Why haven't you called John's mother, or Mycroft? Surely our guardians should be here, if you're allowing an officer from the Yard to interrogate us." Sherlock sent him a mocking smile. John thought for a fleeting moment that Sherlock would need to tone it down, but then he thought of how ridiculous it was that Blake suspected  _Sherlock_ , so he stopped caring.

"Mycroft will be here soon," Lestrade told them, before Blake could reply. "John, your mother is at work, Mycroft will be speaking to her, you don't need to worry about that."

"You remember my name?" John asked, realising  _maybe_ that wasn't entirely relevant now. Lestrade's eyes crinkled with mirth, but he didn't say anything. Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"Well, then," he muttered.

"He's not here to  _interrogate_ either of you," Blake finally said, a tad defensively. "You were the one to see the body, even you must realise, Mr. Holmes, that it's only natural that he should wish to hear your side of the story. And Ms. Waters was questioned as well, so this isn't some sort of vendetta against you, Mr. Holmes."

"And Waters probably told you how convinced she was that I had killed Powers," Sherlock drawled. "Of  _course._ " He turned away from all of them, kicking the chair violently. Blake might have been about to say something about the destruction of school property, but Lestrade sent him a look and Blake nodded, leaving the room.

"Sherlock," John said slowly, touching his shoulder, but Sherlock gave no sign of noticing him, choosing to stare stubbornly at another section of the wall. John sighed, sitting down on his chair again. Lestrade cleared his throat, said, "Let's get it over with, then," and pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

"It's just a few questions," he assured them, sounding exhausted. John had a feeling Lestrade always looked tired. Part of it probably had something to do with his relationship with Mycroft. If there was a relationship. Whatever it was that they had. John decided it was too weird to think about, and anyway he had more important things on his mind.

"You think I did it," Sherlock stated, arms crossed over his chest as he looked at Lestrade defiantly.

"The only reason I'm here instead of Dimmock is because I  _don't_ think you did it, and I want to help you," Lestrade said calmly.

"Did my brother tell you to take this case?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock for a few seconds before admitting, "Yeah."

"Mr...Lestrade," John addressed him awkwardly. "You wanted to ask us questions?"

"Yeah," he said again, and leaned back in the chair. "Powers was a national level swimmer, so the obvious conclusion is that he was poisoned."

"Everyone assumes that I did it, naturally," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade exhaled loudly. " _Actually,_ " he said. "Waters expressed suspicion that it was John."

_What?_

Sherlock made an impatient noise. "It wasn't John. How on earth could it have been John?"

Lestrade ignored him, looking steadily at John. John blinked back at him, not quite sure what he should say. "It wasn't me," came out of his mouth. He looked at Sherlock, who was scowling at Lestrade like he couldn't believe his stupidity, and then he looked back at Lestrade. "I didn't do it," he repeated. "But since everyone probably says that, go ahead, ask me what you want."

"I just want to know your side of the story. Waters was distraught, and she wasn't speaking coherently. So relax, you're fine. I'm just going to ask some questions."

"Okay."

"You threatened him this morning," Lestrade said. "Your words were, and I quote- 'touch him again and I'll kill you'? I'm assuming 'him' was Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned around to look at John. "Why would you do  _that_?" he demanded. "I  _told_ you—"

"He beat Sherlock up a couple of days ago, I got angry, I told him to keep his hands to himself. Hardly something out of the ordinary, isn't it?"

"It wasn't  _John_ ," Sherlock bit out, slamming his fist on the desk. John put a hand on his knee to get him to calm down, but Sherlock ignored him. "He was poisoned, he had been killed barely an hour ago, now it's been longer, one look at the body would tell you that—get your forensics team to find out what he was poisoned with, instead of doing stupid things like assuming that it could have been _John._  I thought you were suspecting me?"

"I'm not suspecting either of you," Lestrade reminded him.

"I  _know_ who it was, and if you would let me out of here, I could be more useful than you and  _prove it,_ " Sherlock snapped.

John turned to look at Sherlock. "What are you talking about?" Know who did it? How could Sherlock know? Unless- then John felt a cold shiver run down his spine.  _Of course._ Sherlock looked back at him, and he saw the realisation on his face because he raised one dark eyebrow challengingly. "Who else could it be?" he muttered.

"You need to question Jim Moriarty," John told Lestrade. He frowned. "He must have gone home by now, but—"

"Who?"

Before he could reply, the door clicked open and someone said, "I trust things have been sorted?"

A great deal of commotion followed this statement. John swivelled his chair around to see Mycroft standing at the doorway, umbrella in hand, surveying them all with detached interest. Blake was behind him, spluttering, "He just wants to  _speak_ to them, Mr. Holmes—" and then Sherlock bounding up from his chair and clapping his hands excitedly and saying, "Finally, it took you long enough. Deal with this," then there was Lestrade groaning and demanding, "Why can't you just let me do my  _job_?"

"Lestrade. Are you done speaking to them?" Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, while Blake fumed behind him.

Lestrade glared at him. "No," he said sullenly. "But there's nothing more they can tell me. "

"Then I'm taking them home. Sherlock, John. I trust the both of you will wish to leave now?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, but his voice seemed far away, like he wasn't replying to what Mycroft was saying, but something else. John looked up at him from his chair questioningly. Sherlock was frowning, a hand curled tightly in his hair and the other on his hip. "Sherlock?" he asked.

"Lestrade," Sherlock muttered, ignoring John. "What was Carl wearing? In the pool? His body, I mean. What was on it?"

Lestrade frowned at him. "Swimming trunks. I know what you're asking, I'm pretty sure he went into the pool himself, but we're not completely sure, we'll have to—"

"No," Sherlock shook his head. His hands went in front of his mouth, and he asked again, "His clothes! His clothes, where were they? What did you find?"

"What is the meaning of this?" Blake demanded, but Mycroft sent him a pointed look and he shut up.

"His uniform," Lestrade answered. "Shirt, trousers, underwear. Regular stuff."

"But no shoes," Sherlock stated.

"No sh—" Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "You're right. No shoes."

Sherlock looked almost triumphant. "You need to look for his shoes. Can I see the body?"

"No," three people answered at once, and Sherlock looked affronted.

Lestrade looked uncomfortable, but he said again, "Sherlock, I really don't think it's such a good idea—"

"This is preposterous!" Blake finally seemed to have found his voice. John tried to get Sherlock to look at him, to tell him something,  _anything_ , because if this was Jim's doing, he was far more dangerous that he had ever thought him to be, but Sherlock was looking venomously at their principal.

"I must insist," Blake said. "Mr. Holmes, please take them home. It's well past three o clock, and if Mr. Lestrade has nothing further to ask—"

"I don't," Lestrade answered, heaving a deep sigh. "Take them home, Mycroft."

"If you would let me see the body—" Sherlock started again, but John decided that Lestrade was right. He knew that Sherlock would be able to prove it, of course he would, but he couldn't get rid of the feeling that perhaps it was best if Sherlock didn't get too involved this time. They didn't know what Jim was capable of, and if it  _was_ him—John didn't want Sherlock to get hurt again. He stood up and held Sherlock's wrist and said, "Sherlock, I think it's best if—"

"How can you say that when you  _know_ it was him?" Sherlock asked poisonously, eyes flashing. John ignored it.

"You're clever. You don't need to see the body to figure it out. For now, trust me? Come on."

Sherlock didn't look happy about it, and John wanted to go somewhere private and ask Sherlock what was  _going on_ because he needed Sherlock to be himself now, not this strange version of himself who refused to speak to John and who looked like any minute now he would strangle the next person who was stupid enough to contradict him.

John couldn't stand it.

Sherlock didn't say anything, and allowed John to pull him out of the room, past Mycroft and Blake at the door way. None of them followed them.

When they were further away from the room, John let go of him and held his shoulders and told him, "Talk to me."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide. John gripped his shoulders tighter and shook him a little and said. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking. Whatever you're doing, stop."

And Sherlock let out a frustrated breath then, slumping a bit under John's hands, closing his eyes. "John," he said quietly, his voice hoarse, "I don't understand what—" he shook his head. "This morning, I—"

"It's okay," John told him. "Hey," he said, when Sherlock was still looking down at his feet. "Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock looked down at John and then, suddenly, before John could react, wrapped his arms around John's middle and nestled his head into the crook of John's neck, literally collapsing against him. Sherlock did that, sometimes, just sort of fell on top of him, as if he could burrow into John and never come out, and John always held him, because, well, that's what John did. Like now, John felt Sherlock inhale deeply, and he hugged him back, absorbing the sudden weight.

"Sherlock?" he asked questioningly. Sherlock held him tighter.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffed. "I'm so sorry."

John sighed, inhaling Sherlock's scent and feeling lighter than ever. "It's fine," he said again. "It's all fine. Everything will be fine."

"I didn't mean those things," Sherlock said, disentangling himself from John so he could look down at him, arms still around his waist. His hair hung in messy curls around his head and his eyes were fever bright. "What I said, I didn't mean it. I was being ridiculous, and now they think it could have been  _you,_ and I—"

John didn't need to listen to any more of it. He curled his fingers into Sherlock's jumper and brought his face down, lightly pressing his lips to Sherlock's. It was a chaste kiss, just a light touch of his mouth, but he felt Sherlock relax against him, his eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his lips harder against John's.

When he pulled away, he cupped John's neck and said, "I'm going to prove it. You know that, right? I'm going to solve this case."

"I know," John said.

John saw Lestrade and Mycroft coming out of the room and walking towards them. He gestured to Sherlock, who dropped his hand and scowled, turning around.

"You sent him here to babysit me," Sherlock accused Mycroft immediately.

Mycroft looked unperturbed. "If he was anyone else, you would have been at the station by now. In any case, John, I managed to not get your mother involved."

"How do you  _do_ these things?" John asked, but no one seemed to be able to answer his question.

"You wouldn't have let that happen, and you know it." Sherlock crossed his arms. "Now what?"

"Now you go home," Lestrade said. "Carl's parents aren't pressing charges. They're not in a fit state, anyway. So the both of you can relax."

John heaved a sigh.  _Thank God._ Now Sherlock could forget all about it, and—

"Shoes," Sherlock insisted. "His shoes are gone. You need to look for his  _shoes._ "

Oh, who was he kidding?

Lestrade didn't look convinced. "Look—"

Sherlock made an impatient noise and turned around, walking away from them. Obviously he was in his I-can't-deal-with-your-stupidity-right-now mood. John thanked Lestrade hastily and nodded jerkily at Mycroft before following Sherlock.

"John, we need to find his shoes," Sherlock told him. "The shoes are the key. They found the rest of his clothes-what did he do with his shoes?"

"So where are we going, then?"

"Parking lot. We need to speak to Carl's mother."

"No, absolutely not," John grabbed Sherlock by the back of jumper ad he pulled him back. "His parents just found out their son had been killed  _today,_ " John explained. "This is a terrible time."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The faster we speak to her, the faster I can solve this case," he countered. "Isn't that what you want? Me, seeking justice for Carl's unfair death?"

John raised his eyebrows. "No," he said darkly. "His death may not have been fair, but you will notice I'm not exactly a mess. You'll figure it out, but you can't speak to her now. How about tomorrow?"

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets impatiently. "Fine," he agreed. "But I'll need you with me. Your absence is highly inconvenient to me."

"Your affection for me is staggering," John said dryly, as they left the grounds behind them, walking on the empty path outside. It was deserted, everyone having gone home by now.

"John, it doesn't make sense," Sherlock said frustratedly. "You say you spoke to him an hour ago. Assuming we found out at three, that would be two o'clock. It can't have been slow poison, Powers was fine before today. Was the poison administered before between two and three o'clock? The body was still afloat when I saw it, which fits into the time frame; he can't have been dead for more than an hour; and Jim is clever, he would have known which of them could have been easily traced and which ones couldn't have; but  _why_ is he doing it? What is his  _purpose_?"

John shrugged. "He's obsessed with you," he said, sounding like a petulant child, even to himself. Sherlock noticed the tone of his voice, and his face darkened.

"He's vile, John. I don't care if he's obsessed," his fingers brushed John's hand.

"Yeah, whatever, but he  _is,_ " John insisted, "And he knows Carl bruised your ribs that day, I don't know, maybe its some sort of revenge for him."

Sherlock's phone beeped then and Sherlock immediately said, "John." John rolled his eyes but slid his hand into Sherlock's pocket.

"Is it my brother?" Sherlock asked.

"Wait."

"Who is it?"

"Give a sec—" John opened the message and read it, his heart quickening in his chest.

" _Carl was a bad boy._

_And bad boys get what's coming._

_Can you solve my little puzzle, Sherlock?_

_PS. I have a surprise for you at home."_

_XOXO_

Sherlock frowned at him, taking the phone. He stopped on the path, his eyes skimming the message. "Can you solve my little puzzle," he echoed.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, because he didn't like the expression on Sherlock's face, a sort of excitement that bordered on hunger; "Sherlock," he repeated. "Ignore it."

"What do you think he means by 'surprise?'" he murmured.

"You're excited about this," John realised, looking at Sherlock's face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, at least he's being  _clever_ about it," Sherlock defended. "It's just another case John, just more interesting." Sherlock continued to stare at the message. "Oh, look, he's sending me a picture."

"Sherlock, he just  _killed_ someone, this isn't  _funny,_ " John snapped, snatching the phone out of Sherlock's hand, worry making him brusque. Sherlock made an offended noise, and John was about to tell him off about being so  _stupid_ when he saw the picture that Jim had sent them.

"Shoes?" he asked, momentarily forgetting that he was angry.

" _Carl's_  shoes," Sherlock corrected. "It's the missing link! He gave me the  _shoes_ , and of  _course_ he would have it, because he killed him." Sherlock was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. John wanted to throttle him.

"Sherlock, don't. You can't do this." John felt sick. He thought of Carl's body floating in the swimming pool because he had touched Sherlock, he thought how mad Jim would have to be to treat it all like a game. This was what he had been so scared about, and now John realised, with a sickening feeling that it was starting. He needed to stop it, he needed to prevent Sherlock from getting sucked into whatever Jim was sucking him in to.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Yes I can," he countered.

"No, no, I won't let you," John said, "He's messing with you, why can't you see it?"

" _Let_ me?" Sherlock spat. "Like I'm—like I'm a  _child_?"

"He just  _killed_ someone, you twat! And now he's baiting you! What if he goes for you next?"

"I'll be careful," Sherlock reassured him.

"No you won't, you're  _never_ careful, and this fucking lunatic is pretending like—"

" _John_ ," Sherlock said, suddenly gripping John's wrists and holding them up. "Calm down."

"Sherlock, he's crazy."

"I know," Sherlock said, and then sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Can you trust me or not?"

John exhaled loudly. "Yes, I trust you. It's  _him_ I don't trust."

"You're worried about me," Sherlock said, and then pulled him close by his wrists, interlacing their fingers. "Look at it this way, I can solve it faster than the police, and once I do that, they'll arrest Jim, and he'll be out of our lives." He leaned his forehead against John's. John closed his eyes, trying to calm his breath. Sherlock curled a hand around his nape and lifted his head up, pressing his lips almost chastely to John's mouth.

John leaned into the kiss, feeling tired and jerky, hoping that Sherlock knew what he was doing. But it didn't matter. Because even if the idiot got himself into a mess, John would be there to help him out of it. Because that's what John did. Always.

"Did you notice something?" Sherlock asked, once he prised them apart.

John raised an eyebrow. "Shower me with your genius."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Unsigned. All of them. Unknown number. He knows I know he did it, but he's afraid of getting caught. I think it's his first time."

John frowned. "First time what?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "His first kill."

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

"This is ridiculous," John stated. It was possible he screeched it. He didn't care either way. He just needed to press upon Sherlock how ridiculous this entire situation was.

Sherlock, unsurprisingly, ignored him. Sherlock continued to stare intently at the sneakers that had been left dangling from their laces on the grill of his window. John thought the wisest thing to do at this moment was to tell Lestrade that they had found the shoes, and because Sherlock was very clever, they should believe him when he said that the shoes were an important clue. But because Sherlock was ignoring him, he probably didn't hear him when John had placed this extremely brilliant idea before him.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John asked.

Sherlock made a non committal noise and sniffed the shoe. He was hunched over his desk, which had been partly cleared to make room for these shoes, and Sherlock was evidently trying to take the shoe apart.

"Listen, you told Lestrade that the shoes were important, and now  _you_ have the shoes. Do you see how that seems a bit shady?" John leaned over the desk and considered poking him in the eye to get his attention.

"Stop thinking about Lestrade, Lestrade is an idiot," Sherlock ordered him. He was looking at the shoe through a microscope but evidently was unable to find what he was looking for. He made a frustrated sound and pushed the shoes away. John wondered if he could just take the shoes and run. He'd probably run faster than Sherlock.

"What happened?" he asked instead, looking at the shoes. They were pretty standard fare, nothing remarkable or unusual about them. White with blue stripes, pretty good nick; traces of a name written with black felt pen.

"I can't find anything, and I don't want to take them apart just yet. It's evident that there Carl's shoes, but what's so  _important_ about them?" He ran a hand through his hair in distress.

"Look, Sherlock. Moriarty got these shoes to you. He even sent you a text. It's enough for the police to go on. Just tell them." John tried to make it sound like a suggestion; a request, more like, because Sherlock detested being told what to do. He wanted to solve this case, he really did, but not at the risk of either of them being blamed for Carl's death.

"What, and hand this over to the Yard? They're going to make an absolute mess of it," Sherlock said in disgust. "They won't be able to solve it and Jim is going to win. I can't let him win. Not this time," Sherlock finished off rather acidly.

John sighed, scraping a hand over his face. He suddenly felt very tired. "Okay," he finally said, because he knew Sherlock was going to solve it. And besides, if he didn't help him/whatever it was that he did, Sherlock would do it all by himself and God knew what kind of trouble he would get himself into.

Sherlock continued to stare into space, his eyes narrowed and calculating, and John decided to leave him to it, instead pulling the strange bean bag that Sherlock kept in his room next to Sherlock's desk and sinking into it.

"Why did he kill him though?" John asked, half to himself and half to Sherlock, loosening his school tie.

"He's proving a point," Sherlock said quietly. "And I won't let him."

* * *

John looked at the building in front of them and decided there was no way they were going to just walk in and ring Carl's doorbell and ask his parents questions. Sherlock never thought these things through.

"They won't speak to us," he told Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him. He walked a few paces away from him and craned his neck to look at the higher floors on the building. John didn't like the look on his face. It was a look that said,  _I'm going to do something absolutely mad right now._

"I don't need to speak to them," Sherlock clarified. "I need to get a look at his room." Sherlock suddenly ducked into the little alleyway on the other side of the building and John had to run after him to make sure he didn't disappear.

"How exactly will you get a look at his room?" John demanded. "You'd have to enter the building to do that. You enter the building  _through a door."_ There were rubbish bins lined up on the other side, next to another building.

"His parents aren't home," Sherlock said, looking at him like he couldn't believe how stupid John was being. John decided not to ask him how he knew that. Then Sherlock looked at the building with a last calculating look and shimmied out of his coat and threw it to John. John caught it, instinctively, wondering why Sherlock was taking off his clothes in this filthy place.

"So how exactly will you—" then John saw Sherlock leap up suddenly and hang himself off the drain pipe. "What on  _earth_ are you  _doing?"_ Sherlock ignored him and started to climb like a monkey, clinging to the pipe and supporting his foot against the uneven brickwork. John didn't know whether he should follow him up, he was sure to fall, and he doubted he would be of any help to Sherlock with a cracked skull.

"I can open the balcony from outside," Sherlock shouted down to him.

John gaped at him. "Get down!" he shouted back. "You're going to fall!" His boyfriend was an idiot. His boyfriend was an absolute maniac and he was going to get himself killed. Sherlock was climbing even higher, away from John. John clutched at his hair in despair.

"It's on the third floor, calm down," Sherlock reassured him, and in another five minutes he was high enough to be able to grip the railings of the third floor balcony and swing himself inside it. John squinted his eyes and could see Sherlock slide them open and slip inside.

"Bloody  _git,_ " he cursed, and ran back to the door of the building because he wasn't going to  _climb the drain pipe_ like a  _fucking lunatic,_ but enter the building like a normal person. The lobby was posh and well lighted, and he tried to look like he knew exactly where he was going, that he was a very calm, level-headed person and was not at all worried about what the hell Sherlock was up to in that room and there  _must_ be some sort of an alarm system in that flat, and if the both of them got arrested, he hoped Mycroft would be able to work some magic again.

He tried calling him on his way up but the idiot wasn't picking up his phone. When he was finally on the third floor, he looked at the three doors leading to three flats and took the one that seemed the most likely one Sherlock would be in.

He banged on it violently. "Sherlock!" he shouted, and then realised there was a doorbell and that might get his attention faster. So he rang it seven times until Sherlock finally opened it, his hair insane and a very annoyed expression on his face.

"Took you long enough, John grumbled, entering the empty flat, tossing Sherlock's coat back to him. "Isn't this alarm-enabled?" he asked, looking around the well-furnished room. True to Sherlock's word, there was no one there. Still, John wanted to get out of here as fast as possible. He shut the door quietly behind him.

"I disabled it,  _obviously,_ " Sherlock rolled his eyes, neatly draping the coat on the peg next to the door.

"You know, we don't actually  _live_ here," John pointed out.

Sherlock looked offended. "It's a very expensive coat, I can't just leave it  _lying around,_ " he said, like  _John_ was being the unreasonable one. "Come on, we need to search his room properly," then beckoned John into another hallway, where the door at the end of it was open, leading into what was probably Carl's room. It looked like a normal seventeen year old boy's bedroom, a large bed, wardrobe, desk, posters on the wall. Medals and trophies from various swimming competitions were hanging from pegs on the wall.

"You look there," he pointed at one side of the room. "Anything unusual," he clarified. John nodded, opening a drawer and sifting through its contents quickly. He had never liked Carl Powers, in fact, he _detested_ him, and it  _did_ seemed odd looking through a dead person's things, but he hated Moriarty even more.

"What's unusual?" he asked.

"Anything," Sherlock answered, on his knees, looking under the bed. "Letters, books, an odd picture, something that shouldn't be there."

"The police haven't looked here?" he asked, opening a diary and rifling through the pages. A picture fell out.

"The police are idiots," Sherlock said shortly, emptying a shoebox under the bed and growling in frustration when he found nothing of substance. John bent down and picked up the picture. It was a photo of a girl, pretty, and she looked quite familiar. He'd seen her before, but where?

"Sherlock," he called.

"Hmm?"

"Does she look familiar to you?" he passed it to Sherlock. Sherlock squinted at it.

"She's in our year," he finally said. "I don't know her name. You should."

"What is  _that_ supposed to mean?" John demanded.

"Well, she's a pretty girl, I assume—"

John rolled his eyes. "I don't even—"

"—and that is certainly  _your_ area of expertise—"

"Shut up," John muttered, and then fisted his hand into the front of Sherlock's shirt and pulled his face towards himself, giving him a quick, hard kiss. "I think  _you're_ pretty," he said very seriously.

Sherlock's cheeks turned pink. "John, don't distract me, I'm on a case," he mumbled, but didn't look too unhappy about it.

"Sure you are," John said good naturedly, and put the photo into the pocket of his jeans. "We'll talk to this girl next week at school," he said. "Maybe she knows something?"

"You'll do the talking," Sherlock told him, opening the bedside cabinet and taking out a box. "That's a great deal of medicine," he said, looking down at the plastic containers and blister packs. "Carl seemed like a healthy boy to you, didn't he?"

John narrowed his eyes, moving over to the other side and kneeling down next to him. "They look like pretty normal stuff," he said, plucking out random bottles and looking at the labels. "Pain killers, fever medicine, digestives—" then he stopped. "Eczema?"

Sherlock looked intrigued. "Why would he be taking tablets?" he muttered, taking the container and screwing off the cap. He narrowed his eyes at the contents. "These aren't for eczema," he said.

"What?"

"They're  _steroids,"_ Sherlock plucked out a tablet and held it up. "Carl was taking  _steroids,_ interesting..."

"But that doesn't tell us anything," John said.

"Carl definitely had eczema," Sherlock told him, "But you usually use cream for that, I think this bottle is a fake. But even if people saw it, they wouldn't have thought it was anything out of the ordinary," he put a fist to his mouth, eyes narrowed. "We need to get back home. I think I know how Jim did it."

John hurriedly put the medicine back in its place. "I don't understand. Jim gave us the shoes. He must have known you'd be able to solve it, does he  _want_ to get in trouble?"

Sherlock looked annoyed. "He has something up his sleeve," he muttered darkly, getting to his feet. "I  _hate_ it."

* * *

Greg liked his job. He really, truly did. Sure, parts of it were exhausting and terrible and at those moments he would have gladly jumped off a building to escape the stress, but all in all, it  _was_ a rather fulfilling job. He also rather liked Mycroft. But he didn't need to think about it now because that would distract him and the last thing he needed right now was to be distracted.

Greg pulled up in front of the large, two-storey house. Posh houses made him uncomfortable. Part of the reason why he never showed up at Mycroft's, despite being invited several times. Not that anyone needed to know that Mycroft did things like that.

He stepped out of the car and surveyed the house, trying to read what he could. It wasn't much, he wasn't Sherlock, but it seemed like a pretty well-maintained house, although maybe a bit  _too_ well maintained. There was no lawn, just a few feet of prickly grass that led up to the porch and the door. He didn't think coming here was worth it at all, but Sherlock had told him to look into it, and well, he was a smart kid. Annoying as fuck, but a smart kid. And a good one. He liked him, although he would  _never_ let Sherlock know that. He had a big enough head already.

Greg rang the bell, and it was opened by a perky blonde woman who had an apron around her waist.

"Good afternoon!" she greeted him.

"Hi," Greg replied mildly, holding up his officer's ID. "Can I come in for a few seconds?"

"Oh, yes of course," she replied, nodding her head fervently. "I hope nothing is the matter, officer?"

"I hope not," he replied, stepping inside and looking around the living room. It was well furnished and excessively tidy; he didn't like it at all. Something prickled at the back of his neck.

"Is Jimmy in any kind of trouble?" she asked, wringing her hands fretfully. Greg looked at her, narrowing his eyes.

"Are you his mother?" he asked.

"Oh no, no," she blushed. "I'm just his housekeeper, officer. Poor boy's mother died when he was very young."

"Right," he nodded. "Is he home?"

"Yes, yes, I'll call him. Please, have a seat. Can I get you some tea?"

"No thanks, I'd just like to talk to Jim for a few moments." Greg didn't want to have  _anything_ from his house. This seemed exactly like the kind of house you could be poisoned in. Sherlock was probably right about this.

He sat stiffly down on one of the chairs, even though they were vastly uncomfortable and he would have felt more at ease with a gun. Then he told himself to calm down, he was a bloody police officer, he could handle a sixteen year old kid and his housekeeper.

A minute later there was a sound of footsteps down the stairs and Greg looked up. Jim Moriarty was slender, pale, diminutive; still in his uniform even though it was past seven o'clock. He smiled at Greg politely when he walked towards him. Something about that smile didn't seem right.

"Ms. Matthews says you wanted to ask me something, officer?" he raised a thin, dark eyebrow, still smiling that odd smile.

"Yeah," Greg answered. "Jim Moriarty, is it? You go to Greystone, as far as I know."

Jim sank down on the opposite chair, crossing his legs. "Yes, I do."

"Did you know Carl well?" Greg asked.

"I've barely been there for more than a month, sir, I don't think I know  _anyone_ that well." Jim cocked his head, soft brown eyes challenging him.

"Sherlock tells me you hung around with Carl a great deal," Greg told him, watching carefully for a reaction.

"Oh  _Sherlock_ told you," Jim giggled. "Sherlock thinks he knows everything about me. It's adorable," he laughed again. "But no, Carl and I weren't friends."

"Where were you yesterday, January 15th, at around 2:30, Jim?" Greg narrowed his eyes.

Jim gave him another one of his cold smiles. "Physics. Favourite subject, wouldn't miss it for the  _world._ You can check up with Ms. Singh, if you want, officer."

Greg nodded. "Fair enough," then he asked, "And after that?"

"Maths tuition. I'm a busy person," he grinned.

"Anyone who can attest to that?"

"Eight other students and a teacher," Jim answered readily.

Greg gave him a tight smile. "Sounds like you're prepared."

"Since you're obviously suspecting me, officer, I could have done far worse."

Greg ignored him. "What kind of relationship would you say you shared with Carl? What can you tell me about him?"

"I didn't like Carl much, to be honest," Jim said flippantly. "Make of that what you will. He was a bully, didn't you know? John must have told you. John was  _always_ down his throat. Carl had it in for Sherlock, you know.  _Always_ annoying the hell out of him," Jim shrugged. "I don't like bullies."

Greg frowned. "It was a regular thing, then? The bullying?"

"Oh, yeah. Practically every day. I don't blame John, to be honest, I mean, if that was  _my_ boyfriend Carl was thrashing, of course I'd have a bit of a temper problem too. You know," he shrugged.

"I've already heard enough about John. I want to know what  _you_ can tell me." Greg raised an eyebrow.

"I've told you everything I know, officer," he replied smoothly, leaning back in the chair. "I was nowhere near Carl on January 15th, should be clear enough to you."

Greg nodded. "Very well, Jim," he stood up. Jim didn't. He just looked at him, that smirk playing on the corners of his mouth.

Greg left the way he came.

He didn't know what to make of it. He could easily follow up on his albis, but he had a feeling they were all correct. Greg hated this. He hated it when kids got involved in this kind of thing. It just made his job harder, and he was a hundred percent sure that Sherlock was hiding something from him, something that he knew. Maybe John would tell him.

Outside, a sleek black car was waiting. Greg rolled his eyes. He actually understood Sherlock's accusations that Mycroft followed him around everywhere. Because if he had time to send his sleek black cars after Greg, then Sherlock probably had it worse. John probably had it the worst of all, because he was pretty sure Mycroft sat behind high-tech camera systems and dispatched these cars everyday, and one of them was constantly keeping a tag on his brother's boyfriend.

Someone flew out of the car and opened the door for him. Greg ducked his head inside and told Mycroft, "I have a car, you know."

Mycroft looked unconcerned about this. "I'm aware. Get inside."

"And what am I going to do with my car?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes like Greg was being the most idiotic person on the planet. "Give your keys to Michaels, he'll take care of it."

Greg was confused. "How does Michaels know—"

"Michaels knows everything," Mycroft assured him gravely. "He is standing behind you."

Greg turned around to see one of Mycroft's well suited, solemn faced minions blinking at him. He was a little frightening. He gave him the keys and said jokingly, "Don't scratch it." Micheals stared at him for a few seconds like he couldn't decide whether that idiotic comment deserved a reply or not, but then he just nodded stiffly at Greg and got into his car and sped away.

"Michaels seems like a serious sort of bloke," Greg concluded.

Mycroft gave one of his huge, weary sighs that seemed to say  _The stupidity of the people around me is so exhausting_. Sherlock had perfected this sigh as well. Greg decided it would do no good to antagonize Mycroft any further and slid into the car.

"Do you spy on me?" he asked very seriously. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

"Is that what you think?"

"Sherlock says you have surveillance on him all the time," Greg defended.

"You're thirty four years old, I'm sure you can take care of yourself. Do I need to keep surveillance on you?"

"How do you know my age?" then, "Oh my god, you  _do_ have cameras on me, don't you?"

Mycroft ignored him and asked, "How far are you with the case?"

Greg made a grumpy sort of sound and fell back against the seat. "Jim Moriarty has enough alibis to clear every criminal in England," he said darkly. "But he's involved in it somehow. Sherlock's right."

"Of course he's right," Mycroft agreed. "Don't tell him I said that," he muttered after that.

"I can't believe the both of you are for real," Greg said to the roof of the car.

"Sherlock tells me he knows how Jim did it," Mycroft declared.

Greg turned to him. Mycroft was looking down at his phone, his gingery hair falling over his brow. Greg had an insane desire to swipe it back from his forehead. But he decided that Mycroft would not appreciate that kind of a gesture, no matter how good the shagging was. "What is he saying?" he asked, trying to get his head back on the case and not Mycroft's hair.

"Of course he won't  _text_ that to me, "Mycroft complained. "He's far too dramatic for that. He demands your presence."

"The both of you spend far too much time assuming that everyone is at your beck and call. I'm a police officer. I'm  _busy,_ " Greg muttered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes again. "You're working on this case, Greg, and Sherlock will give you a lead. This is  _work._ "

Greg didn't quite agree to that, but he decided he had to. All in the name of justice, he supposed. Then Mycroft leaned over and kissed him under the jaw and said, "I'll take you to dinner tonight," like some sort of sexual beast and Mycroft  _never said things like that_ so Greg supposed it was all in his best interests.

* * *

"Did you text him?" Sherlock asked, impatiently pacing the room.

"Yes, I  _told_ you," John replied, waving the phone for emphasis. Sherlock's phone. Obviously. Because why would Sherlock text when he had  _John_ to do it for him?

"He's far too inefficient, even by normal standards," Sherlock muttered, running a hand through his hair. John would be glad once Lestrade turned up and Sherlock told him he'd solved it. He hadn't eaten or slept as far as John could tell, and God only knew what he was running on.

"He'll be here," John assured him, looking at the pieces of the shoe hanging from clothespins from one side of the room to the other.

Sherlock made a disbelieving noise and sat down on the floor in front of the bed, leaning against John's legs and tapping his foot impatiently. John's hand instinctively went to his hair, which was quite frankly, more of a mess than it usually was. Sherlock leaned fractionally into his touch, but he was still thrumming with nervous energy and excitement and he wouldn't calm down until Lestrade made a proper arrest.

"It's okay," John told him, carding his fingers through his hair. "You did it. You solved it."

Sherlock huffed. "Yes," he agreed. "But—"

"But nothing," John interrupted, giving his hair a bit of a tug. "You did it."

John couldn't see it on his face, but he could feel Sherlock smile.

After a while, he said, "What you're doing right now. It's...good." John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, probably grinning like an idiot.

"What, this?"

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed, now leaning more fully into John's hands. "I didn't do this...before. Before you. But you can do it. I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?" John asked.

"This. Help me relax. I never relaxed before."

John wanted to say something in reply to that extraordinary statement, because it seemed like such a typically Sherlock way to say important and sincere things like that; like it was nothing, merely a trifle.

But at that moment, the doorbell rang downstairs and after a few moments there was a knock on the door. "That's them," Sherlock exclaimed excitedly, and sprang up to open the door, the half-way sleepy tone of his voice gone. "Took you long enough," he complained, but opened the door wider to let Lestrade inside, and behind him, Mycroft.

"Hello, John," Mycroft greeted him. John stared at him, and then nodded back. Why did Mycroft have to look so  _threatening_ all the time? Lestrade gave his shoulder a bit of a pat and then seemed to notice the disembodied shoe hanging from the ceiling like bits of meat.

"Is that the  _shoe?"_ he exclaimed. "You had the shoe? Sherlock, what the hell," he looked very disapproving.

"Oh now don't fixate on  _that,_ " Sherlock waved dismissively at him. "Listen to me very carefully."

"How did you get the  _shoe_ s?" Lestrade repeated urgently. John glanced at Mycroft, who seemed unconcerned and had pulled out Sherlock's desk chair and seated himself on it. "You said they were a vital piece of evidence and you  _hid it_?"

"I didn't  _hide_ it," Sherlock defended hotly. John rolled his eyes.

"Jim gave them to him," John offered.

Greg looked confused. "Would you be able to prove that?"

"No," Sherlock said unhappily. "becaue Jim didn't put them here physically, he had someone else do it for him. Obvious. Right. Now that that's out of the way, listen."

Greg nodded at him to go on.

"Poison," Sherlock said shortly. "Clostridium Botulinum. One of the deadliest poisons in the world," he explained. He pointed at the shoes. The parts of it. "Carl suffered from eczema—"

"Yeah, we picked that up," Greg agreed.

"—it would have been the easiest thing in the world to introduce it into his medication. There are still tiny traces of it left in the shoe laces."

"But the autopsy report would have picked that up from the cream, we had it tested."

"It's virtually untraceable," Sherlock said impatiently. "And you wouldn't have been looking for it. Have forensics test it for Botulinum. Anyway. Carl was found floating in the water with his swimming trunks off. Assume he was practising. Empty room, lights off- doesn't make sense. Obviously someone had been there  _after_ he drowned. It would take up to two hours for the poison to take effect. When has the the time of death been reported?"

"Two thirty to three o'clock," Greg answered.

Sherlock nodded as if this made sense to him. "So it must have been administered at around twelve noon—which is when Carl had his first swimming practise of the day, must have applied the medication then. Simple. So, two hours later he's found in the pool again- poison must have taken effect, paralysed his muscles, he drowned.  _But_  someone must have been there with him, either they persuaded him for another practise or they were hiding, trying to make sure the plan worked. Which it did. So Carl drowns, the person's out."

"And who do you assume this person was? Jim has an alibi. He has two. And he'll probably have another one for when it was administered."

"That's because Jim didn't  _do_ it himself, but he was involved, definitely," Sherlock smiled triumphantly, then turned to John. "John?"

"It was Richard Finnigan," John answered. "We found a picture in Carl's diary of some girl; turns out her name is Miranda Hawkins, his sister—and she's in our year. Carl had a thing for her, chased her around a lot, you know," John shrugged. "Richard Finnigan was interested too. We spoke to her about it this morning. Richard's jealous, he wants Carl out of the way—easy from there. Jim suggested it to him, provided him the poison, and Richard did the rest."

"You interrogate Richard," Sherlock advised him. "He'll crack in a minute- he'll confess. He's scared out of his mind. He'll blame it all on Jim, I'm sure you can find him guilty of  _something._ "

Greg exhaled loudly, sharing a glance with Mycroft. "I hope what you say is true," he murmured.

Sherlock looked offended. John could have laughed. "Of course it is."

"Then I had better get going," Greg said. "I'll get back to you when it's settled," he gave John a small smile and then jogged out of the room.

"Well," Mycroft said as soon as he was gone. "That was quick." He stared at the open door through which Lestrade had left and maybe it was a stretch of imagination to think there was a wistful look in his eye.

"Go away Mycroft," Sherlock ordered him. "I did it, now leave us in peace."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, then looked at John as if he were saying  _Very well then he's your responsibility now anyway_ , and stood up. "Get some sleep, then. John, stay over tonight if you wish."

" _You_ don't need to  _invite_ him, of course he's staying over now  _go away,_ " Sherlock repeated, scowling at Mycroft. John hoped he didn't resort to throwing things at him. While that was an unsurprising reaction to when it came to Mycroft, he certainly didn't want it to happen _now._ Not when Sherlock was thrumming with self-satisfied energy over having solved the case and  _why was John finding that so hot_? Sherlock was right, Mycroft needed to get out of this room  _now._

Mycroft probably noticed John's expression. He hoped not. John cleared his throat loudly and looked away when he glanced at him. Then Mycroft cleared his throat and gave John another one of his strange looks that could have meant anything from  _Have fun doing inappropriate things to my brother_ to  _I shall bring down MI5 on you if you even lay a hand on him_ and then left the room.

Sherlock looked extremely confused. "What was all that about?" he asked, looking at John as if he expected him to have all the answers.

John looked at the door to make sure it was locked and then walked over to Sherlock and curled his hands in the collar of his shirt and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock made a sound of great surprise that developed quickly into something that was low and deep and impossibly arousing and kissed him back.

"I'm confused," he said against John's lips.

John smirked and licked at his bottom lip. It was too pretty, he thought. Sherlock's mouth was far too pretty. "Do you know what you look like right now?" he said, and pinned it with his teeth.

Sherlock gave a choked gasp, hands moving to John's hips to hold himself in place. "No?" he said uncertainly.

John pulled away a fraction and looked up at him. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were hazy with arousal; two minutes kissing John and the feverish intensity was gone. "Hot," John answered. "You look hot."

Sherlock looked halfway amused and halfway embarrassed, his cheeks going redder with a blush. "Hot?" he echoed.

"Yes," John answered shortly, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's Adam's apple. Sherlock's hips gave a lurch against his, hardness brushing against John's hip. "You were like this the first time too, all self-satisfied and predatory and sexy. I should have kissed you then," John scraped his teeth down his collarbone.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "You were being slow."

"Slow? You think I'm slow? Watch what you're brain's gonna be like in a minute," John challenged, and stroked him through his jeans. Sherlock groaned, moving his mouth down to John's again. John kissed him back then, feverish and frantic, and Sherlock scrabbled at his jumper until he managed to get a proper grip and pulled them onto the bed.

"Sherlock," John rasped, as Sherlock hitched a leg around his waist and his hips canted against his.

"I should be—solving—more cases—if it gets you—hot," Sherlock babbled, pushing John tighter against his erection, giving another filthy moan when John thrusted against him.

"Take off your clothes, oh god," John muttered, and haphazardly started unbuttoning his shirt.

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, grabbing his wrist.

" _What_?" John said impatiently.

"We should have sex," he answered.

John frowned at him. "Well  _yeah_ I was  _getting there_ , you prat—"

"No, not this kind. The  _other_  kind. Your cock in my arse kind of sex.  _That_ kind." Sherlock looked up at him, hair messed up and his eyes fever-bright.

John must have stopped breathing for a second, because his brain just temporarily shut down, maybe out of lack of oxygen.

"You...I...uh..." John blinked at him some more.

"Stop  _babbling_ and  _tell me,_ " Sherlock demanded.

"But we need things for it!" John defended. "We need condoms! Do you have condoms? Oh my god, have you been carrying around condoms? Do you keep them with you? And lube, we need lube—"

"I don't have condoms," Sherlock said slowly. John groaned and sat up, straddling Sherlock's hips.

"You can't make these suggestions and then say you don't have condoms! What is wrong with you?!"

"But Mycroft does," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's frustrated outburst. "I think he keeps them in his office."

Several horrifying images plagued John's head at that moment. "You want to use  _Mycroft's_ condoms?" he asked, "You really are desparate."

Sherlock raised a mocking eyebrow. "And you aren't?" his gaze travelled downward to John's twitching erection, still straining against the denim of his jeans.

"You're right," John said immediately, and hopped off his bed. "Let's get his condoms. Does he have lube? Oh my  _god_ why am I asking you these things, are we really going to use his...sexual...does he _do_ that? No wait, don't tell me, I don't want to know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, tucking his shirt back into his jeans. "Didn't I  _tell_ you? He's shagging Lestrade. Now come on."

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"We'll sneak into his study, take his things and then get back here and then you're going to fuck me until I scream," Sherlock told him very matter-of-factly, and then swept out of his room.

"What is my life," John muttered to himself, and followed him.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: 16 year old boys having explicit, consensual, really awesome sex.

"Are your parents home?" John asked, suddenly realising the inappropriateness of shagging Sherlock  _while his parents were in the same house._ "And wait a moment—even your brother is home!"

Sherlock ignored him. As usual. Sherlock never displayed interest in real life,  _actual_ problems. His shirt was halfway unbuttoned, appealing flashes of his chest and collarbone visible between the parted white cotton. Sherlock seemed absolutely unconcerned about the fact that they were prancing around his house half dressed with still rather visible erections.

Instead, he directed John down the corridor outside his room until they reached a door at the end of it. "Mycroft will currently be in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading something dull about the economy," he explained, and extracted a hair clip from his pocket.

"Do you carry that around?" John asked, because only  _he_ would be more concerned about the fact that Sherlock had a female cosmetic product rather than the fact that he knew how to pick locks. Sherlock, on his part, made a non committal noise and opened the door.

"Come on," he said, stepping inside. Their bare feet made dull noises against the carpeted confines of the room. It was large, and dark, and imposing, and seemed exactly like the kind of place Mycroft sat in and devised evil plans about conquering the free world.

Sherlock immediately crept to his desk, dropping to his knees and opening the drawers underneath it.

"Does Mycroft really keep...um," he licked his lips. "You know. In his  _study_?"

"Oh, I'm sure he has plenty in his bedroom," Sherlock said airily. "But perhaps he has some stocked here for convenience. They do so love shagging in this room."

John decided not to say anything or think too hard about that for the purposes of his sanity.

"Aha!" Sherlock said, extracting a packet and throwing it to John. "Chocolate, you see. Maybe it reminds him of cake."

"No, Sherlock," John shook his head vigorously and slipped the lube packet into his pocket. "Don't—no."

"We need condoms," Sherlock mused. "He doesn't have any here. And his bedroom will be difficult to unlock.  _Ugh._ " Sherlock stood up, eyes darting around the room as if he expected a box to magically appear out of nowhere.

At that moment someone cleared his throat from the door and John froze.

"And what," Mycroft said, and John wasn't sure what to do with any part of his body, "are the both of you doing in here?"

John decided to turn around because he couldn't keep staring at that bookshelf forever, and he was immediately met with Mycroft's piercing, grey gaze. One eyebrow was raised at him, cold and mocking. Obviously he had noticed his state of undress and Mycroft was perfectly capable of putting two and two together and—fuck.

"Nothing at all," Sherlock said brightly, and sauntered over to John. He had a large, false smile plastered onto his face which looked oddly terrifying. Mycroft raised a dubious eyebrow.

"Keep your sexual exploits confined to your own room," he said, finally. "Get out."

John was only too glad to leave. They were halfway down the hall before Mycroft called from inside his study, "And John? Be careful." The unsaid  _or I will have your head cut off and fed to the starving orphans in Africa_ was clearly implied. But Mycroft was always subtle.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. Then he stopped walking. "Oh, I have some in my room," he said, his lips pulling up into a gleeful grin.

"Why would you—have you done this before?" John gaped at him, feeling his gut twisting his jealousy.

Sherlock scoffed. "No. It was for an experiment. You'd be surprised to know useful latex products are. Come along, John."

* * *

John curled his fingers into Sherlock's shirt, crowding him against the desk and kissing him hard, fast and bruising. Sherlock gasped, flailing a bit until he was able to get a firm grip on his hips and pulled him closer. John went, pressing himself against Sherlock until there was barely anything between them, his erection trapped against Sherlock's leg, his fingers brushing the flushed skin of his neck.

" _John_ ," Sherlock gasped, when John slid his tongue between his lips. John's hand cradled the back of head, nestled against the thick mop of curls, the other fumbling at the buttons of his shirt until he was able to touch his skin unrestricted, resting his palm against Sherlock's quivering abdomen.

"I— _fuck,_ John, just, fuck me. Now." Sherlock demanded, shrugging out of his shirt so it fell to the ground, and John wrapped his arms around his slender waist and for a second just rested his lips against Sherlock's neck, breathing him in while Sherlock squirmed underneath him, rutting relentlessly against his thigh. Always so restless, John thought fondly.  _He never stops for a second._

"I—like you," he murmured, aware of how horribly inadequate that was, but he said it, because he needed to, needed to say something about how much he loved Sherlock without really saying it, before they were both lost to sex. "I adore you. Do you know that?  _Fuck,_ Sherlock, I adore you."

He kissed him then, pulling Sherlock's face towards him so he could press his lips against him, soft and smooth, slowly, long enough for Sherlock to become boneless and shaking and scrabbling at John's belt.

"I—you are important," Sherlock said raggedly against his mouth, pushing him against the bed, dragging his belt out of his loops. "To me. You. So important. I can't—" he took John's lower lip between his teeth and sucked, and John helped his fumbling fingers get his trousers and pants out of the way. " _John,_ " he simply ended up saying, unbuttoning his own trousers so they fell to the floor, along with those ridiculous red boxers, wrapped around his ankles. John fell on top of the bed, and Sherlock straddled his hips immediately, wrapping his fingers around his nape and tilting his face up, kissing him. John wrapped an arm around his hips and pulled him closer, Sherlock's cock pressed against his own, wrenching a gasp from John's mouth when he rolled his hips against him.

" _Fuck,_ " he groaned, and Sherlock leaned his forehead against his own, and for a few seconds, they stayed like that, lips parted and panting, breathing each other in. John suddenly felt like he would explode, and Sherlock twisted them around and pushed him against the pillows, lying on top of him, sucking a bruise into his neck.

"Do you know—that—sometimes, I," he nipped his earlobe, his words half-said and disjointed like he couldn't stop and finish his sentence, needed to touch John as much as possible, "can't breathe. Without you. I— _fuck,_ " he said, as John thrusted his hips upward to meet him.

Sherlock rubbed against him, breathing raggedly in his ear, and John curled his fingers tightly in his hair, hooking a leg around his waist and rutting his length against Sherlock's crotch.

"Not like—wait, not like this," Sherlock said, and scrambled off of him. John made a whiny sort of noise at the absence of contact. Sherlock pulled him up, so he was kneeling between John's spread thighs, and kissed him again, and said against his lips, "Fuck me?" as if there was any possibility of John saying no.

" _Yes,_ " John said, and slipped the packet out of his pocket. "You need to—need to show me how. Never done this. Not with a boy. You'll tell me?"

"With a girl?" Sherlock asked, an amused tilt to his lips, eyes glinting beneath his shock of hair.

"Well," John squirmed, unsure of how to answer that. That was one time, before Sherlock, before a lot of things. He had turned sixteen and Lindsay Waters had sneaked into his room under the pretext of giving him a birthday present. It was fumbling and clumsy and over within four minutes so not really one of the best sexual experiences of John's life.

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said with finality. "I don't need to be your first. Just your best." Then he kissed him underneath his jaw, unaware of the fact that John was slowly combusting, melting in response to the whirlwind he loved so much.

He ripped the packet with his teeth, taking John's hand and facing it palm up, squeezing the gel onto his fingers. "Surely you have a decent picture of what you're meant to do, John," he said, deep voice resonating with barely controlled laughter.

"Git," John said fondly, and turned Sherlock around, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, which was slightly damp with sweat. Sherlock sighed, and John ran a hand down his back, the elegant ridge of his spine, before steadying a hand against the crest of his hip, his palm against the swell of his arse.  _Fuck,_ he looked so good like this. John never stood a chance. Ever.

"You'll tell me if it hurts?" he asked, spreading the liquid across his fingers. "If I do something wrong, you'll tell me."

"You won't hurt me," Sherlock said, in a tone that would broach no argument.

At the first probe of his fingers, Sherlock positively keened, throwing his head back and grinding his bottom against them.

" _Yes,_ " he rasped. "Yes, like that.  _Fuck,_ " John's erection strained against his belly but he tried not to touch it, not wanting it to be over before they even began. His fingers slid in and out of the tight muscle, Sherlock hissing between his teeth at the movement.

"Is this—is this okay?" he asked, and Sherlock choked back a gasp before saying, "Two fingers.  _Two fingers,_ John."

John complied, slipping in another finger inside, and Sherlock's fingers curled into the bed sheets. " _Fucking, fuck,_ John,  _John,_ " he mewled, and John fucked him slowly open, trying to control his own quickened breathing and his bobbing erection, but  _bloody hell,_ the sounds Sherlock made,  _fuck._ Then his fingers brushed a particularly sensitive spot, and Sherlock moaned. Loudly. John had to cup his hand over his mouth.

Sherlock ripped his hand away, interlacing their fingers instead, rutting against his hand. "Yes,  _there, there,_ perfect, John, you are  _fantastic._ "

"Jesus, Sherlock," he whispered, before he had three fingers inside and Sherlock was scrabbling at everything he touched, grinding helplessly against John's fingers, his body trembling, back covered with a light sheen of sweat. It was the hottest thing John had ever seen.

"Fuck me,  _fuck me,_ John, now,  _please,"_ he whined, and John slipped his fingers out, grabbing the condom packet that Sherlock was passing to him, hands shaking as he ripped it open and squeezed the remaining lube on to it.

Sherlock turned around then, to face him, the colour high on his cheeks, eyes bright and fevered with arousal. "You," he rasped. "Want you," he grabbed John's shoulders towards him, pulling him on top, wrapping his legs around his ribs, lifting his hips upwards and pushing John against him. "Like this," he said. "Can we do it like this? Want to see you.  _John,"_ he garbled, and kissed him clumsily, knocking their lips and teeth together. He tasted amazing, and John slid a hand under his back, lifting him up so he could slide inside.

" _Oh, Jesus, fuck, Sherlock,_ " he gasped, Sherlock clenching tightly around him, the warm wetness enveloping him. Sherlock hissed, clamping his arms around his neck and pulling him closer, closer, burying his head in John's chest.

" _John,_ " he groaned, and he sounded insane, breathless, barely holding on, and John's muscles shook with the effort of not slamming inside. Instead, he stayed still for a moment, letting Sherlock relax around him, for the trembling of his body to subside.

"Does it—does it hurt?" he asked, nuzzling into Sherlock's hair.

"Yes. No. Just,  _fuck,_ harder. Harder,  _please._ " John lifted Sherlock's face away from his neck so he could look at him, his eyes wide, lips parted as John slid in further. Sherlock threw his head against the pillows, arching his back under John, fingers tugging on his hair almost painfully.

" _Yes,_ " he panted. "Yes, yes,  _move,_ John, please,  _move._ "

John pressed his lips against his throat, rolling his hips into him, causing Sherlock to positively mewl in pleasure, hips lurching against John, pushing him in deeper. John thrusted in again, before his hips began to move in an unsteady, halting rhythm, Sherlock writhing underneath him, heels digging into his ribs.

"Harder," he commanded, biting his lip so the flesh turned white under his incisors. " _Harder._ "

"Don't," John countered, fucking into him slowly and reaching up to tug his lips from under his teeth. "I want to hear you."

Sherlock cried out then, grinding against him, and John could feel pleasure coiling tightly in his belly, difficult to hold on as Sherlock squirmed and gasped and called John's name in the sexiest ways possible. He reached downwards and wrapped a hand around his erection, and Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head, hips immediately canting against his fist, John's name tumbling from his lips like a prayer.

" _John john john, fuck, JOHN, yes, yes, oh god,_ " he whimpered, John's hips snapping against him more forcefully now, quicker, desperation dictating his movements now. Sherlock pushed in and out of the tunnel of John's fist, jerkier, unsteady.

"John, I'm— _fuck,_ John, I'm going to—"

"Yes," John prompted. "Yes, _bloody fuck, Sherlock,_ come, yes, do it," he choked, Sherlock's body stilling for a second underneath him while he tightened himself around him like a vice.  _"John,"_ he howled, hips moving frantically back and forth between his cock and his hand, warm, slick wetness running over John's fist.

"Fuck, Sherlock, love, yes,  _yes,_  beautiful, you're so fucking beautiful," John babbled, hips stuttering as he rocked against him, clumsy and uncoordinated, gripping the back of Sherlock's head tightly, leaning his forehead against his, panting.  _"Sherlock, yes, yes,_ oh fuck," and then he was coming, filling Sherlock up, moaning his name again and again, Sherlock encouraging him with quick thrusts of his hips.

"Yes,  _god,_ do it in me, yes, John, John," he whispered, until John's movement slowed down, wrenching out the last of his pleasure until he fell on top of him, sweaty and breathing hard.

They didn't move for a while, John's head buried against the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's sweat and faded cologne, Sherlock's legs locked around him like he had no intention of ever unwrapping himself from John.

Finally, he fell from him weakly, disentangling his limbs until they were spread out limply under John. And John slipped out of him, kissing his forehead tenderly when he winced.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, brushing his fingers against Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock sighed, turning to him, so his silvery blue eyes were locked on John's. He looked so beautiful, John thought again, his hair messy and sex-dishevelled, his lips red and a pinkish blue bruise slowly forming against the pale skin of his neck.

"No," he finally said, and closed his fingers around John's wrist and kissed the pulse slowly thrumming there. John felt everything warm up pleasantly, it was a ridiculously sentimental thing for Sherlock to do, and yet it seemed perfect.

John grinned and kissed his chin. "We should get cleaned up," John reminded him.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, and then curled himself around John, nuzzling his neck and wrapping a leg around his hip.

"To do that we'll have to get out of this bed." John still lifted a hand to stroke his damp hair.

"No," Sherlock decided, and pulled John closer. He could feel their semen drying against his stomach, uncomfortable and cold, but Sherlock seemed unconcerned.

"Was that good?" John asked.

"I don't have anything to compare it to," Sherlock replied pragmatically. "Can't come to a conclusion without sufficient data."

"Prat," John said, and kissed the top of his head, inhaling the scent of Sherlock's shampoo.

He wondered if Sherlock had fallen asleep, but then he said, "It's supposed to be important, isn't it? The taking of virginity?"

John shrugged. "If you want it to be."

Sherlock made an intrigued noise, suddenly shifting so he was supporting himself on his elbows, looking down at John. John stifled a yawn and looked expectantly back at Sherlock.

"Is it important to  _you_?" he asked, and John's heart twisted a bit to hear the faint hopefulness in his voice.

"Yes," he said honestly, pulling Sherlock down so he could kiss him. "It's the most important thing to me ever."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, his hand still over John's chest, right above his heart. John felt it thrum faster under his fingers.

"Yes," John repeated, and then wrapped his arms around Sherlock and practically crushed him to his chest. "Yes, yes, yes."

Sherlock crushed him right back.

He fell asleep soon, because Sherlock never slept, but the combined physical effort of solving the case and pretty spectacular sex had him snoring in minutes. So John puttered about his room looking for a flannel but couldn't find one, only a suspicious looking towel with strange stains on it. He settled for using his shirt, wetting it and then wiping the damp cloth across his skin to remove the dried ejaculate, and then over himself. Then he texted his mom to let him know he was staying over at Sherlock's, to which she replied, " _No monkey business,"_ but it was honestly a little late for that.

Sherlock was curled up on the bed, gloriously naked and looking quite, quite debauched, his dark hair spread under his cheek like a halo, his fingers resting against on space John had just vacated. John settled in next to him, and Sherlock made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a cat purring and squeezed in next to him in his sleep, hooking his knee over John's hip.

John felt like everything inside of him was being crushed, for a second. As if he wasn't ever going to be able to breathe again. But it wouldn't be so bad, he thought, not being able to breathe, if he had _this._ He brushed his fingers across the crest of Sherlock's cheekbone, lightly, feeling like he was going to cry for an embarrassing moment.

He wasn't sleepy, even though Sherlock was already snoring (change of pace, he mused) so instead he pulled out one of Sherlock's numerous notebooks that were shoved into the built in bookshelf next to him. The notes barely ever made sense to him, but he liked flicking through them, imagining Sherlock writing feverishly on yellowed pages, his fluttering, elegant scrawl giving voice to the thousands of deductions inside his head. Sherlock's hair in a frizzy mop on top of his head while he bent over papers and notes and ramblings, trying to pen down thoughts that travelled faster than the speed of light.

 _Poetic,_ he heard Sherlock rumble in his hear, and he turned the page.

A piece of paper fluttered out, something that had been written in another book and stuffed inside this one. The edges of it were torn and wilted, but it was clearly something Sherlock had written.

_Calls me brilliant/fantastic/amazing. First time. Why would he do that? Must ask him. Or should I? No, never mind. Pointless. Might stop._

_That sandwich. Why the sandwich? Why does he care if I eat or not? (sandwich was terrible, though. But irrelevant)_

_Didn't think the thing with the frogs was 'creepy'. Laughed. Smiled. Does he find the thought of dissecting frogs humorous? Should I ask him? Would be important for future reference. If John Watson finds frogs amusing I must find more frogs. His mother's a biology teacher (obvious) maybe she'll have access to them._

_Nice eyes. Brilliant eyes, in fact. Blue but not quite blue. Ridiculous. That doesn't even make sense. It' either blue or not. Except it's not quite blue. Must ask Irene. She reads too many romantic books anyway. Useless drivel. But might prove illuminating in this case._

_Added._

_-John Watson has a rather brilliant smile. I think I should make him smile more often. Smiles when I make a particularly good deduction. Strange. Fascinating. New. Logic dictates that if I am to keep him smiling/impressed need to be smarter. Might stop calling me brilliant. Must make better deductions. Should I tell him that Mason suffers from erectile dysfunction? Might find that amusing. Must find out._

_-Says that I am his friend (?) (look into after further research into the matter)(Note, added: Told John that he was my friend as well. Only friend. Must be careful. Can't lose him. Need reference and information. Irene._

_Added._

_-John has a scar under his jaw. Found out when I kissed him. Which was brilliant. Underestimated the pleasure of kissing. Or maybe it's just John. Need more data. Should kiss John more often. Fantastic prospect._

_Added._

_John doesn't think I am a sociopath. Should I correct him? John is an idiot but he is smarter than most. Thinks I am clever and intelligent. Not a sociopath. What does this imply?_

_Added_

_John enjoys fellatio. Excellent._

_Added_

_Irene thinks I am in love with John._

_(?) tried to tell her I wasn't capable of it, but she screamed at me. (?)_

_Also gave me tips on fellatio. Didn't need them, I'm brilliant anyway._

_Am I in love with John? How would I know?_

_Need more data._

_Sex? With John?_

_Need more data._

John felt his throat swell up uncomfortably, a dull pounding in his ears. His fingers gripped the piece of paper harder until it was rather wrinkled. Sherlock had written about  _him._ John imagined Sherlock sitting at his desk or on his bed, pen travelling frantically down paper, thinking about  _him._ All of that blinding, maddening attention, focused on  _him._ How could he not have exploded into a million pieces when Sherlock looked at him like that, close enough to wonder about the colour of his  _eyes_?

John wanted to bring the paper to his face and inhale it, the scent of Sherlock, Sherlock rambling and taking notes and complaining that he needed more data because he couldn't come to a conclusion about whether or not he loved John.

John didn't know what to think of it, didn't know whether it was a wise choice to give into that euphoric bubble that was bursting in his chest. Instead, he folded the paper tenderly like it would fall apart any second and placed it back between the pages of the notebook. John had a feeling that Sherlock was going to know in seconds that it had been removed, and if he was in a particularly tiresome mood he would realise that the notes had been extracted as well. He spent a great deal of time fixing the position of the book until he was half-way satisfied with it.

After that he laid back against the pillow, turned off the lamp and looked at Sherlock for a long time, his face barely visible in the darkness, listening to him breathe and wondering if this is what it felt like, being in love with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock was woken, quite rudely, in fact, somewhere around the crack of dawn by someone shaking his shoulder.

He made a disgruntled noise and snuggled further into the bed. This was highly inconvenient. Who  _was_ this imbecile? He was  _asleep._ Everyone was constantly telling him to sleep more and then they _wouldn't let him._

"Sherlock.  _Sherlock._ I'm leaving now, my uniform's covered in come. I'll change at home and meet you at school, okay? Okay?"

_John._

John was saying something to him, something about come. Sex? Fantastic. Sex with John was fantastic. He wouldn't mind having some with him right now. He gave an interested  _hmm_ and tried opening his eyes. John was looking down at him with an expectant expression, wearing his untucked shirt and trousers.

"Sex?" he croaked at him. John laughed. Quite a brilliant sound, that laugh.

"No, not now. I'll see you at school, okay?" then he leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth and Sherlock was just beginning to wake up properly so he could kiss him some more and then, maybe they could shag—but then John pulled away and slung his bag over his shoulder and walked out.

Sherlock considered going after him but then he fell asleep again.

Later on, he woke up to a rather cold, John-less bed and didn't like it one bit. It couldn't be helped, though, John obviously thought it was inappropriate to arrive at school in ejaculate-covered attire. Sherlock didn't care, either way. But it one of those tedious  _John_ habits that John wouldn't get rid of.

He pulled on his uniform, buttoning his shirt and noting, with a rather funny feeling in his stomach, the purplish bruise on his neck. He brushed it with his fingertips and the memory of John sucking into the skin and sliding into him led to an erection which Sherlock had to will away with sheer force of mind. It was exhausting.

"Brother," Mycroft greeted him when he went downstairs for breakfast. He was starving. Strenuous physical activity along the lines of sex gave him an appetite, then. John would be persuaded to fuck him more if Sherlock notified him of this.

Mycroft was still looking at him over the top of his newspaper.

"Oh sod off," he growled, grabbing a piece of toast and smashing it into his mouth. His parents were nowhere to be seen,  _thank god,_ they had probably left for work.

Mycroft lowered the newspaper and raised an eyebrow. "Really, now, I was expecting a thank you after you—" he coughed, " _borrowed_  my things."

Sherlock scowled at him, putting his palms on the table and leaning forward. "Do you really want to have  _this_ conversation?" he demanded. "I am not having this conversation with you."

Mycroft looked very much like he was trying not to laugh. "Dear god, neither do I," he agreed. "There are some things that I have no intention of discussing with you, brother dear, but allowances have to made. Rules have to be set down."

"Oh my god," Sherlock moaned, horror slowly blossoming in his stomach. "You're honestly not...oh my god, I don't want to talk about this with you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "There's no need to be quite so immature about this," he muttered, and Sherlock noticed with a slight twinge of satisfaction that this was making him uncomfortable as well, if the faint blush in his cheeks was anything to go by. "But allow me to remind you that our parents don't approve of your relationship with John Watson."

"I don't give a fuck about what our parents approve of or don't," Sherlock replied evenly. Mycroft pursed his lips. "They don't have a say in this. And neither do you."

"Oh far it be for  _me_ to stop this," Mycroft defended. "I approve of John. Not that you would care, but it  _is_ useful to have someone on your side, though, isn't it?"

Sherlock hated when Mycroft was right. He was always so  _smug._

"But," he continued. "Maybe shagging each other blind in your bedroom isn't such a good idea," he advised, looking intently at the newspaper. "Or, try to be discreet about it. You're fortunate our parents weren't home last night, or they would have had to face the same horrors I did. Do lock your door, Sherlock, and try to be quiet next time."

"I-" Sherlock began in an angry huff, but Mycroft didn't listen.

"Conversation is over, brother dear," he said smoothly. "Unless you  _want_ to speak to me about your sexual escapades?"

"I'd rather shoot myself in the head," Sherlock said primly, and finished his toast.

"And that would be a crying shame," Mycroft agreed solemly, folding his newspaper. "What ever  _would_ John do?"

Sherlock threw the piece of toast at him.

* * *

When he reached school, he couldn't find John anywhere.

How inconvenient. What was the  _point_ of school if there was no John Watson? Sherlock waited near the library, bringing out his phone to text John, but he held the phone in his fingers for a moment before he pressed the keys.

_To: G. Lestrade_

_Have you arrested anyone yet?_

_SH_

Sherlock hadn't checked the papers this morning, and Mycroft hadn't said anything to him. Jim hadn't contacted him ever since that day he had sent him that message about the shoes being a present, and that had been two days ago. Both days he hadn't been in school, but Lestrade had informed him that he was still in town, still at home.

Students had looked at him strangely when he was walking inside, but Sherlock was used to it, it wasn't anything new. Lestrade had been notified of the culprit yesterday, surely he had been able to do _something_?

"Hey, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up from his mobile to see Victor in front of him, lips pursed, looking at him expectantly.

"Yes." Sherlock looked back at him, slipping his mobile into his pocket. He didn't really want to have a conversation with anyone except John, but Victor was passably tolerant.

"So the thing with Carl, I just wanted to ask you about it, because everyone's saying all sorts of things." He slid his hands into his trouser pockets, leaning back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  _Tedious._ "Yes, some people are under the impression that I killed him. Idiots. I've notified Scotland Yard about who actually did it."

Victor shrugged. "Some people, yeah, but they're idiots, like you said. Don't worry about them. It was Finnegan, wasn't it?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "How did you know?"

"Davis told me," Victor replied. Sherlock had no idea who Davis was. Victor looked at his blank expression and laughed. "Right, you don't know him. He's in my year, lives across from Finnegan's flat. Saw him leaving with an officer last night. He's not in school today, and neither is Miranda."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, then."

"She was bawling at the memorial, remember? And Finnegan was all edgy and weird. I think he slipped out too, saw him smoking in the football field, when we were leaving."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He hardly remembered the memorial. It had lasted an hour and he had fallen asleep at the back with his head on John's shoulder. John had dutifully remained awake and prayed along with everyone else although later on he had snogged Sherlock in the loo rather desperately so that was all Sherlock could recall.

"How observant of you, Victor," he said. "I'm proud."

Victor threw his head back and laughed. Sherlock didn't know why Victor found him so amusing. He was, after all, being sarcastic. John might be of the opinion that he didn't understand it but he  _could_ wield it.

"Sherlock, there you are!"

Sherlock turned around to John jogging up around the corner up to the both of them. When he was close enough to touch, he grabbed the front of John's jumper and kissed him. Victor whistled.

" _Well,_ I'd—uh—" he cleared his throat. Sherlock wished he would just go. "Uh, leave."

John pushed Sherlock off with a half-way amused and half way exasperated expression on his face and turned apologetically to Victor.

"Hi, I'm uh—sorry, he's just, you know." He shrugged. John's hair was spiky and wet and some of it was flopping wetly into his eyes because of his shower, and he'd helped Harry out with her homework this morning, right before he left. God, he looked so beautiful. Sherlock wanted to bury himself inside him and never leave.

"Yeah," Victor replied, his face bright red. "Good. Right. Okay. Bye." Then he turned around and almost fled from them.

"Victor looked rather frightened," John noted, an amused tone in his voice, and Sherlock could barely take it. The corridor was empty, Sherlock was in love with John, he curled his fingers into his jumper and pulled him close and tilted his head and kissed him.

John parted his lips immediately, letting Sherlock push him up against the wall and slide his tongue inside his mouth. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's hips, pulling him closer.

"I thought you were going to have sex with me this morning," Sherlock said petulantly, kissing down his neck. He smelt  _fantastic,_ of soap and shampoo and tea and John.

"You were half asleep," John defended, arching his back under him.

"Believe, John, that wouldn't have been a problem."

"Also we didn't have time."

Sherlock tugged his lower lip with his teeth. "You are such a  _tease,_ " he accused.

"Get off, we can't snog in the hallway," John replied half heartedly, gripping onto his shoulders a bit tighter.

"What was that you said?" Sherlock teased? "Get off? You want to get off? I believe, John, that I can help you with that," Sherlock dexterously slipped a hand between them and palmed John's cock through his trousers.

" _Sherlock,_ " John choked, flush creeping pleasingly up his neck.

"Mmm," Sherlock encouraged, licking the shell of ear. John gasped under him.

" _Christ,_ you lunatic, someone will see us—"

"Bit too late for that, I think," someone quipped, and John pushed Sherlock off of him instinctively. Sherlock stumbled a bit, turning around to look at Jim leaning casually against the wall with a relaxed air.

"You," he bit out, stepping forward. " _You—_ "

"Oh no, do go on," he waved a hand dismissively. "I was just beginning to enjoy the show." He smirked at the both of them, and Sherlock wanted to claw it off.

"You should be in jail," John said casually, straightening his collar.

Jim clutched at his chest in mock shock, pretending to look outraged. "The  _accusations!"_ he exclaimed. "Now, now, John, let's not be hasty."

John made a sudden movement as if to fly at Jim and pin him to the wall, probably with an elbow at his throat, but Sherlock clutched his wrist, shaking his head at him.

John exhaled loudly through his nose, fingers twitching as if he wanted them around Jim's throat. "Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice level.

Jim shrugged. "I didn't do anything wrong," he claimed. "Why should I be anywhere else? Finnegan, though, poor lad." He shook his head sadly. " _Love,_ you know. Such a vicious thing." He winked at the both of them before turning around to leave. "Ta, boys."

"How the fuck did he do it," John whispered under his breath. "It was him, it was all him. Finnegan could have—what did he  _say_?"

Sherlock bit his lip, looking at the empty corridor with a sick feeling in his stomach. "The right things," he replied.

* * *

"How did you do it?"

Jim slowly lowered the book down from his face, placing it on the table top with a dull thud. He tilted his face upwards to look at Sherlock, smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Now  _that_ would be telling," he replied evasively. Sherlock pulled out a chair and sat down on it, leaning forward so he could look at Jim properly. Jim laced his fingers together on the wood and grinned at him.

"So, did you enjoy yourself?" he asked.

"Finnegan is in juvenile and you aren't. How did you do it, Jim? What did you say to him?" Sherlock drummed his fingers against the desk, searching his face for anything—something. It remained frustratingly blank, just dead, cold eyes staring at him and the gleeful line of Jim's mouth.

Jim giggled. "It drives you crazy, doesn't it, Sherlock?  _Not knowing_?" he leaned forward so he could leer right into his face.

"Don't test me," Sherlock warned.

Jim smirked. "Already have," he announced, leaning back, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you passed. Liked it, didn't you?"

Sherlock continued to glare at him.

"Oh you did," he insisted. "You had fun. You danced for me, Sherlock, you spun like a top, just like I thought you would. I gave you a game and you played it, and now you think you've won. Adorable." He lifted a hand to stroke it across his cheek, and Sherlock swatted him away.

"Someone  _died,_ " he spat.

"People do that alarmingly often," Jim replied, a long-suffering air. "And sometimes people would like to move that along. I help where I can, Sherlock. It's fulfilling. You're not the only one who gets bored."

"I don't kill people as a cure to it."

"No," Jim agreed, his face morphing into something more calculating, greedy. "You and your ridiculous  _morality._ "

"It's not about morality."

"Yes, it is. Of course it is. Right and wrong, black and white. You're anything but ordinary, dear, don't let John Watson make you so."

"Don't you fucking bring John into this," Sherlock spat, slamming his fist onto the desk.

Jim whistled. "So touchy when your pet is concerned," he said lightly. "You play your cards so openly, Sherlock, it's almost like you  _want_ people to know how weak you are."

"Shut—"

"Remember what I said, Sherlock, ages ago?" Jim smiled at him. "I said I owed you a fall. Do you remember that?"

"Vividly," Sherlock replied.

"You would look beautiful," Jim said wistfully. "Falling. Like a giant bird. Except you wouldn't fly. You'd fall, cracked open like an egg. You think you're invincible, made of steel," Jim stroked a finger down the top of his hand. "But you're not. You're made of bones that break and blood that will leak out of your skin. You don't know how frightfully easy it is, breaking the human body. It's so  _frail._ Your's, John's, Carl's. Sometimes all you need is a  _push._ " At the last word, he stood up, fingers spread across the table, leaning down so he could look at Sherlock properly. Sherlock looked back at him, cold seeping through his belly.

"I like having the things I want," he murmured, stroking a thumb across his bottom lip. "And I take what I can't have. Don't make me push you, Sherlock, you don't have wings."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: Non-con drug use, mild violence.
> 
> Added: the dismal and frankly hilarious French in this chapter has now been corrected, by the lovely WolfandI. Thank you, darling.

 

 

 

"Would you be adverse to the idea of coming to London with me?"

John put his pen down and leaned back against the bed. Sherlock was flopped on the mattress, his head lolling off of it so he could look at John where he was sitting on the floor.

"What?" John asked, trying to remember how he had come to the solution. The equation wasn't making sense and Sherlock wasn't helping him. " _It's so obvious John, just think."_

"You. Me. London. This weekend." Sherlock replied impatiently, as if John was being hopelessly slow.

"Why would we go to London?" John asked, frowning, closing his book because evidently they were going to have a meaningful conversation now and when Sherlock wanted to have meaningful conversations he would have them whether John was listening or not.

"For a wedding," Sherlock explained, rolling over on to his front, resting his head on his interlaced fingers. "Cousin. My parents have been talking about it for weeks, and I wasn't going to go anyway. But if you'd come with me, I could be persuaded."

John smiled. "What would we do in London?"

"Have a lot of sex," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"We'd go all the way to London to have sex?"John raised a dubious eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed. "I just...I just want to...I don't know. Get away from here. I'm tired, John. I hate school and I hate this place and would it be so awful, to get away from it all for a day or two?" he looked beseechingly at John, and all of a sudden he looked much younger than he was, much less put together, and yes, John noticed in a sudden burst of clarity, rather exhausted.

"Hey," he said softly, turning to him so he could look at him properly, and cupped his cheek. "What's all this about, then? Is this about Moriarty?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leaning more fully into John's palm. "Come with me, please," he said quietly.

"Of course I will," John replied, grinning. "Are you kidding me? I'd love to go to London with you. And have lots of sex. Although Harry will be jealous."

"Of the sex? Really, John, that's a rather inappropriate thing to—"

John rolled his eyes. "No, you prick, about London. She'd love London."

"Bring her along as well," Sherlock advised. "She's entertaining."

"Definitely not. She'd tell mum that we're shagging each other like rabbits, or something," He leaned back against the bed again, hand falling from Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock shuffled closer until his nose was buried in John's hair.

"We  _will_ be shagging like rabbits," he insisted. "Enola's parents have rented a lovely hotel, there are dozens of rooms. Everyone will be downstairs drinking champagne and eating poached salmon and being otherwise dull and predictable, meanwhile you'll have your cock up my arse and we'll be doing extremely filthy things. It'll be delightful."

John giggled, tilting his head up to meet Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock purred approvingly, parting his lips but not doing much else, just letting John move his tongue lazily against his.

"So basically you're taking me to London so we can fuck each other," John drawled against his lips.

"Problem?"

John huffed back a laugh and kissed him some more.

"Wait, did you say your cousin's name was  _Enola_?" John asked, when he finally pulled away.

Sherlock stared blankly back at him, grey eyes hazy and sleepy. "Yes," he agreed. "Enola. And her brother, Sherrinford."

" _Sherrinford_?" John echoed, choking back laughter. "Why does your family name their children things like  _Myroft_ and  _Sherlock_ and  _Sherrinford,_ for God's sake. And Enola? Really?"

Sherlock sniffed. "My name is fine."

"Yes, yes," John agreed, pecking him on his lips. "Yours is fine. Very sexy. Posh. Like you. But Sherrinford. Christ."

"They're going to love you," Sherlock said disdainfully, flopping on his back so he could complain to the ceiling. "Sherrinford especially. Be careful, though, he flirts with anything that moves."

"Sounds  _exactly_ my type," John joked.

"Shut up."

"I didn't know you had cousins. You never talk about them. I've never seen the rest of your family actually," John mused. "Are they like your parents?" John could see all of them in his mind's eye, with startling eyes and cheekbones like ice, razor sharp tongues to match their intellect.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not quite," he replied. "Enola's mildly tolerable, as is Sherrinford, after you get over his idiotic sense of humour and the fact that he'll try to grope you within five minutes of meeting you. Aunt Vivienne is not like Mother at all, and neither is her husband. Grand mere and Grand pere generally shout and complain—"

"Just like you, then-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. –"but they do most of it in French, so you won't have to worry."

"Your grandparents are French?"

"Yes, as is my mother. But she grew up in London."

"So you're half  _French."_ John whistled. "That—that is ridiculously sexy. Come here, you sexy bastard."

"John,  _really,_ " Sherlock huffed, but went anyway.

* * *

John stepped off the train with a rather huge sigh of relief.

He doubted he'd have been able to sit in their compartment any longer without drugging Sherlock so he would fall asleep and shut up  _and be quiet for just a second._ Sherlock was not meant to sit in one place for any longer than five minutes. He just  _wasn't._ For the sake of the continued existence of the universe, Sherlock Holmes  _must_ be allowed to roam free. You shut him up in one place and you would be signing your own death warrant.

Besides, the loo was far too small for them to do anything but give each other awkward hand jobs and snog pressed up against the sink, but how long could they do that,  _really_? Sherlock hated I Spy. John refused to play Cluedo, (he was surprised Sherlock had brought it along, actually) and there was no point of reading  _And Then There Were None_ if Sherlock read the first few pages and told him, "It's the judge. Obviously."

Mycroft wasn't coming with them and his parents were coming later by flight, although John supposed that was more because Sherlock didn't want to travel with them rather than for any other reason. They hadn't been too happy that he was coming, but as Sherlock so elegantly put it,  _fuck them, John._

"Oh, thank  _God,_ " Sherlock said fervently, once they stepped off the train and into the bustling platform. "London. People. Noise. Not dull." He turned to John with an almost manic expression on his face, hair messy and wind-blown. "Don't you just love it?"

"The station smells like piss, but yes, I do," John replied dryly, holding on to their luggage, because (obviously) Sherlock couldn't be arsed. He didn't mind though. Sherlock looked suddenly more alive than he had ever been, his coat wrapped around him like a lover and his cheeks pink with cold. John could understand why Sherlock loved London, why he was so desperate to come here. It reminded him of Sherlock, in an odd way, the pulsing rhythm of it, the blessed  _motion_ of it. He could picture Sherlock here, in all his otherworldly madness, running amok in the bustling streets, solving crimes and complaining to John about how dull the criminals were being.

"Come along, we'll take a cab and we'll be—oh no," Sherlock's voice suddenly went low with horror.

"What?" John asked, nudging him. "What is it?"

"Sherlock!" John looked up to behold the object of Sherlock's horror, which was a young man with a mop of reddish brown hair, which was actually all he could register before said man tugged Sherlock into a hug. John choked back a laugh. Sherlock looked terrified, arms stretched out slightly like he had no idea what to do with them.

"Yes," he said, voice muffled against the bloke's shoulder. He patted his back awkwardly. "Hello, Sherrinford."

"How have you  _been_?" he replied, stepping back, and clapping Sherlock's shoulder. So this was Sherrinford. He was an inch or two taller than Sherlock, probably around six feet, maybe a few years older than them, nineteen or twenty, with shaggy dark hair and pale skin. He was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and was grinning at Sherlock like he was the most delightful person he had ever seen.

"Yes, good, very good," Sherlock muttered, embarrassed, cheeks scarlet. "John," he said, looking extremely uncomfortable. "This is—my cousin, Sherrinford. Sherrinford, this is John."

Sherrinford looked at him in surprise. "John!" he said jovially, holding out his hand for John to shake. John took it. "Mycroft did say Sherlock would be bringing someone, rather a lovely change, I reckon," he did have something of Sherlock in his face, except his eyes were softer and bluer, his laughter more open.

"I—hello, hi," John greeted, as Sherrinford shook his hand enthusiastically.

"So glad Sherlock finally has a friend," he said happily, easily taking John's luggage from him. "Or...whatever it is you are," he winked at John.

John gaped at him. "I—uh,  _well,"_ he spluttered, because there really was no point in denying it.

"Pity, you're rather fit," he mused, and Sherlock glowered at him.

"Um," John replied, unsure of how to respond to that. "Hey, I can take—"

"No, no, let me," Sherrinford smirked. "You're our guest, after all, and Sherlock's so scrawny he'd barely be able to get this out of the station. Come on, then, car's waiting. Where's Aunt Joyce and your dad, then?"

"They'll be coming in tomorrow," Sherlock replied sullenly, sticking his hands into his pockets.

"Right, cool," Sherrinford said. "Enola's dying to meet you. Grand pere and Grand mere just came in this morning. Ranting at the top of their lungs, as usual."

Sherlock cracked a smile at that. "So who's this young man Enola's marrying?" he asked, as they walked out into the street where a sleek silver car was waiting.

"Well, you'll meet him, won't you?" Sherrinford asked mischievously, passing their luggage to the driver who had sprung out of the car to help them. "And then you can tell us everything we missed."

"Which would be everything, obviously," Sherlock muttered. John chuckled, and Sherlock winked at him.  _Winked_ at him.

"He seems nice," John whispered to him, when Sherrinford was behind the car fitting their things into the trunk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He's a pretentious tosser," Sherlock muttered. "But tolerable."

"He really seems to like you, though," John defended. "Welcome change from the rest of your family."

Sherlock acknowledged that with an incline of his head.

"So I see you've gotten yourself a new girlfriend, then," Sherlock told Sherrinford as he opened the door for them. "Giving guitar lessons too. How do you make time for that when you're studying for an MBA?"

Sherrinford chuckled good naturedly before closing the door behind them. "I can't wait for you to meet Quentin," he said grinning, and slipped into the front seat. "Do me a favour and tell  _everyone_ about his secret BDSM quirk or something."

"I don't know if he has a BDSM quirk  _yet,_ I haven't seen him," Sherlock replied petulantly. John laughed.

"Who's Quentin?" he asked.

"Enola's fiancé, obviously. Quentin. Hmm. He's an artist, isn't he?"

"A writer, but close enough," Sherrinford agreed. Sherlock twirked his nose and crossed his arms over his chest, getting ready for a sulk. But John shoved over and planted a kiss on his cheek slyly and his muscles relaxed a bit.

The drive was long so John had to speak to Sherrinford. Not that he minded. He liked him. Sherrinford was so unlike Sherlock that it was difficult to believe that the both of them were related. Sherlock grew steadily more disgruntled the more John laughed at Sherrinford's ridiculous jokes.

"No need to be quite so petulant, little cousin," he teased, leaning back and ruffling Sherlock's hair, eliciting a sharp squawk of astonished protest. "I'm not stealing him from you." He winked at John as if to say,  _well what he doesn't know won't hurt him,_ and John couldn't help but laugh some more at that.

* * *

When they reached the swanky flat that was evidently where they lived, Sherlock tossed John's bag to him with rather more force than necessary.

"I fail to see how you get along with Sherrinford so well," he hissed at him.

"Like a house on fire," John agreed, and shoved him playfully. Sherlock scowled at him. John pursed his lips and made kissy face at him to which Sherlock responded with an outraged expression. "He won't be who I'll be fucking tonight," John promised under his breath as they followed Sherrinford to the lobby. Sherlock turned scarlet and cleared his throat and tried to loosen his collar.

"Well, John, welcome to the madhouse," Sherrinford joked, when they had stepped out of the lift and had rung the bell.

"Quite the understatement," Sherlock agreed, and the door was opened.

"Sherlock!" a woman exclaimed, opening the door, and enveloped Sherlock in an embrace. "You've grown so much, look at you," she gushed, once she pulled away. Sherlock was pink. The woman was tall, willowy, with Sherlock's cheekbones and eyes, just like his mother, but like Sherrinford she was different. "Oh, and you must be John, Mycroft did tell us." She smiled at John, reaching forward and hugging him.

"Uh,yes, hello, thank you for having me," he said a little awkwardly, after she pulled away. He hadn't expected this side of Sherlock's family to be like  _this._

"Oh, nonsense, the more the merrier. Sherrinford, get them inside, will you?" she patted John's cheek once before sweeping away.

"Is she really related to your mother?" John asked, and Sherlock smiled sardonically in reply.

The flat was spacious and elegant and well furnished, as any other penthouse apartment in central London would be, he supposed. John felt grimy and underdressed in his jeans and jumper and jacket. Sherlock had no such problems, he'd just swirl that coat onto his shoulders and look like the poshest thing he'd ever seen.

"Nice place," John whistled.

"John, Sherlock, you both can take the room next to Enola's upstairs. You're lucky we don't have enough rooms otherwise we'd keep you separately, and that'd be a shame, from what I can make out," Sherrinford told them, pointing to the staircase swirling to the upper floor, making John's ears go rather warm. "Your parents will be in the guest room, and if Mycroft decides to show up, he and his umbrella can camp in the kitchen," he laughed at his own joke and John couldn't help cracking a smile at that as well.

"Keep him outside," Sherlock advised sagely.

 

"Who eez it? Est-ce Sherlock?" John turned around to notice the elderly couple seated on the sofa for the first time. They both were around their seventies, drinking tea and lounging comfortably against the cushions.

"Oh, yeah, Sherlock, go say hello. John, meet our grandparents. "Je vous les envoie, grand-mère !" Sherrinford clapped them both on the shoulder before disappearing from sight, running up the stairs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if he was being asked to do something extremely tedious, and tugged on John's wrist so he followed him.

"Come here, je ne peux pas te voir," the woman said. She was skinny and severe looking, with white hair pulled back in an elegant chignon, looking more like Sherlock's mother than anyone else. Her husband, on the other hand, had a soft, pleasant face and was looking at them both affably.

"Bon après-midi, grand-mère, grand-père," Sherlock greeted, leaning forward to kiss his grandmother on both cheeks stiffly and shake his grandfather's hand. His grandfather shook his hand enthusiastically and grinned at him. "Tu as tellement grandi !" he said happily.

His grandmother sniffed at him and looked at him disapprovingly, putting a hand on his waist and turning him around like a top so she could look at him properly. "Vous êtes trop maigre," she muttered. "Too skinny. Mummy does not feed?" then she turned around and squinted at John. "Qui est ce garçon?" she asked.

John stared blankly at her. Her husband patted her lightly on the shoulder and said, "Chérie, arrêtez de les embarrasser." after which he turned to John, smiled kindly and said, "And you are friend, yes? Of Sherlock?"

"Yeah," John replied, relieved that they were finally speaking in English. "John Watson," he extended a hand and he shook it, beaming at him, while the lady looked at him suspiciously. She turned to Sherlock and asked, curiously. "You have friend?"

"Oui," Sherlock replied petulantly. "Est-ce si surprenant?" His grandmother laughed.

"Bon," she replied with relish, before looking at John again. "Handsome," she pronounced him. "Pourquoi, mens-tu, Sherlock? Boyfriend, not friend."

John's mouth fell open. "Um," he said uncomfortably. "It's not, well—" he spluttered but Sherlock tapped him impatiently on the shoulder to get him to shut up.

"Boyfriend, yes," he muttered. "Contente?"

"Yes," his grandmother replied. "Very happy. Now go. Upstair. Ver eez Enola? Go meet her. You. John. Be careful, yes? Sherlock is good boy. You? Don't know. Handsome, yes, but good?" she made a suspicious noise with her tongue before she said again, "Don't know."

Sherlock made a noise of enormous annoyance and clasped his fingers around John's wrist to drag him away from the both of them.

"All modern boys," he heard her say behind them. "Want sex."

John coughed loudly and followed Sherlock upstairs quickly.

"What the hell was all that?" he asked. "And you speak French. How could I not have known? That was sexy. Too sexy. I would have gotten a hard on right in front of your grandparents, and then she'd tell me  _all ze modern boys want sex._ "

Sherlock chuckled, leading him down a short corridor. "I learnt when I was six. Mycroft had just picked up Spanish to show off, I wanted to be more impressive."

"As usual," John replied, with a smile, before Sherlock opened the door.

Their room was just as posh as the rest of the house, although there were two separate beds instead of one. Their luggage was piled up in between both the beds, and there was a slim box lying on top of Sherlock's suitcase.

"Hold up," John said, stepping forwards with something akin to horror, "Are these, Jesus Christ." He held up a box of condoms with a shaking hand to show to Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled. "An example of Sherrinford's quick wit," he muttered.

"Oh, looks like you discovered my present," someone said from the door. Sherlock and John turned around to see a woman waving at them cheekily from the hall.

" _You_?" Sherlock exclaimed. "How—where were you? Hiding?"

"Oh no, Sherry told me," she said arilly, sauntering into the room and sitting down comfortably on the edge of the bed. She had long dark hair pulled up in a loose pony tail, dressed in jeans and old t-shirt. She looked like she was in her mid twenties, with striking features. "It barely took us a second, while Grand mere and Grand pere were berating you about your love life," she grinned at him and then held out her hand to John. "I'm Enola," she smiled. "Sherlock's cousin, star of the weekend, blah blah. Afternoon, John Watson." She winked and John weakly shook her hand. She had just put _condoms_ in their room, how was he supposed to talk to her?"

"Yeah," he laughed weakly.

"I've been embarrassed enough by the whole lot of you," Sherlock complained, grabbing Enola by her shoulders and hauling her up. "Get out. I'm taking a shower. Don't you have a fiancé to attend to?"

"Oh, Quentin is going to  _love_ you," she giggled, while Sherlock pushed her out of the room. "Tea's at four, come downstairs after you both are done shagging each other's brains out. Quentin will also be coming, so be on your best behaviour," she warned, winking at the both of them before leaving.

"This is an alternate reality, isn't it?" John asked, after she shut the door behind her, flopping backwards into the bed. "How are these people even related to you? It's not fucking possible."

Sherlock huffed, flopping down next to him. "I told you they'd love you. God, it's frightful. Two days of this. I'll go  _mad._ "

"No worries, you have me," John promised, turning over. "That's why I'm here. To make sure you don't go crazy."

"If I remember correctly, you promised to do that by having lots of sex with me," Sherlock reminded him, looking at him, eyes darkening slightly.

John grinned, tugging him closer by the lapels of his coat. "I did," he agreed. "Now, about those condoms..."

* * *

"What is this?" John asked him, holding up the flute of champagne and peering at it. His face was, quite frankly, adorable. However, there was nothing adorable about the rest of him, in fact it would be impossible to call John  _adorable_ at the moment because he looked  _hot._ Sherlock didn't generally use such pedestrian terms, but it really, really couldn't be helped; not when John was wearing a suit and he looked like  _that,_ with that white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and grey trousers hanging loose on his hips—and  _damn,_ he really needed to get a hold on himself if he didn't want to end up with an erection in this room full of people.

" _Dom Perignon",_ 2001," Sherlock replied, clinking his glass with John's. "It's actually very good," he added, and took a sip. John raised his eyebrows at him, cheeks going slightly pink.

"Why do I find you drinking champagne so ridiculously sexy?" John asked, swirling his own glass. "It's not  _fair._ "

Sherlock smirked. "You find the French sexy, you think me drinking champagne is sexy—"

"Shut up," John muttered at him, smiling against his glass.

"I have no intention of shutting up," Sherlock complained. "Look at this place, it's so  _dull."_

It was, it certainly was, and there was no point in trying to deny it. The hotel was fancy and expensive, because his family loved  _showing off,_ and there was nothing to do here besides drink and chat and pretend like you were even vaguely interested in each other's lives. Sherrinford had sneaked out of the hall to some partly hidden area of the hotel to snog his girlfriend, Arabella, (four dogs, takes cooking classes, knows Spanish, two serious relationships, terrible smoking habit but quite a voracious reader) and Enola and her disgusting fiancé Quentin, who didn't turn out to have a BDSM kink, but  _did_ have a history of asthma and quite possibly diabetes, and even though he  _was_ a talented cellist it was no excuse for the fact that he called Sherlock a  _riot._ He was not a  _riot,_ he wasn't anything remotely close to a  _riot,_ whatever that was supposed to mean.

John inclined his head in agreement and leaned back more comfortably against the counter. They had been standing here for close to fifteen minutes. Sherlock was going to tear his hair out.

"Okay, okay," John said, putting his glass down on the bar. "Go on. Deduce for me," he leaned in and whispered the last bit into Sherlock's ear.

"Alright," Sherlock said, clearing his throat. "See the blonde girl over there, she's gay, clearly trying to get it on with the bartender, althoughI have no idea  _why_ , she's been single for over two years and has three cats, quite obsessed with them in fact, look at her, she has stickers on her  _mobile,_ for God's sake—"

"Um, excuse me?"

"Not now, I'm busy," Sherlock snapped at the red haired girl who was so rudely interrupting them. –"and the blonde's a gymnast, obviously— _but,_ hmm, she's been injured, you can tell from the limp, it's subtle, university education, majored in Art, I'd say—"

"Sherlock," John hissed, nudging him. "Yeah?" he turned to the girl who was attempting to get their attention. Sherlock wanted to tell her it was a lost cause, he wasn't interested in anything she had to say, and neither was John,  _John ,_ he noticed with a flash of irritation, who was smiling at the girl in the most ridiculous way possible, a smile that was  _clearly_ flirtatious and Sherlock was going to claw it off if—

"Sorry, I uh, haven't seen you before. Are you a friend of Sherlock's? Enola told me he brought a friend, I was curious," she smiled at John in an equally ridiculous manner, fluttering her eyelashes and flipping her hair. She might just have taken off her clothes right then and there, for all the good it did. Pathological cheat, Sherlock observed snidely.

"I'm, yeah, yeah, a friend," John agreed. "And you are?"

"Well, we're cousins, but he obviously hasn't recognized me. Dyed my hair, you see," then she laughed, and it was a horrible, fake laugh, and Sherlock wanted to tell her that she wasn't fooling anyone. Instead he stood next to John, fuming quietly.

"Right," John replied, leaning closer to the girl. "I can see why you did that, everyone's got dark hair, rather difficult to tell all of them apart."

"If you both are  _quite_ finished," Sherlock snapped, taking hold of John's wrist. "My  _friend_ and I have some urgent business to attend to," he finished, and dragged John away from the bar.

The girl looked alarmed at Sherlock's acidic tone but Sherlock didn't give a  _damn,_ because John was  _his,_ and yes, he was brilliant and beautiful and the entire world was in love with him, but well,  _tough luck._

John Watson was taken, thank you very much, and maybe Sherlock wasn't good enough for him, but John could decide that for  _himself,_ and of  _course,_ if John  _really_ liked that stupid air head he was free to go with her, but it wasn't as if Sherlock was just going to  _give him away._

"Right, okay, slow down there, tiger," John was telling him, and Sherlock exhaled through his nostrils like an angry bull and then Sherlock dragged him into the gentleman's loo and had him pressed up against the cold tile with his mouth on John's, feverish and frantic.

"Woah, woah, hold it there," John said against his lips, cradling the back of his head. "Sh— _damn it,_ " he hissed, when Sherlock palmed his cock.

" _Friend,_ are you," Sherlock purred, sucking the shell of his ear. "Why, yes, we're very good  _friends."_ He stroked him through his trousers and John choked back a gasp.

" _Fuck,_ Sherlock, it's not like,  _Jesus,_ I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Do friends do  _this?_ " Sherlock asked, and moved his lips down to John's neck, sucking and scraping his teeth against his skin. "Do friends touch you like  _this,_ John?" he wrapped a hand around John's growing erection and squeezed, this time, and John squirmed, gasping.

"You  _lunatic,_ " he hissed. "You brilliant, fantastic, clever  _lunatic,_ I'd never, you know I'd never, I thought you didn't want me to—"

"You're mine," Sherlock whispered in his ear. "Do you understand?  _Mine._ "

"Yes," John agreed, throwing his head back against the wall, exposing that god damn  _throat._ "Yours. Yours. Always."

"Come here," Sherlock murmured, and unlocked the nearest door and shoved them both inside, all the while kissing John desperately.

"In the washroom?" John said, grinning against his lips. "You filthy boy."

Sherlock chuckled, sucking John's bottom lip between his teeth, manoeuvring them until John was pushed up against the door, within the confined space of the cubicle. "She wouldn't have been able to do  _half_ the things I can do to you, John," Sherlock promised salaciously. " _Vous_   _allez baiser ma bouche maintenant_."

"Obviously," John agreed, gripping onto his blazer and kissing a spot underneath his jaw. "I have no idea what you said but that was so sexy. You're amazing, you know that?"

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, and dropped to his knees, untucking John's white shirt from his trousers and lowering the zipper and shoving his trousers and his pants down. "I said that you were going to fuck my mouth."

" _Jesus,_ " John groaned, leaning his head back against the door, panting already. "Tell me they won't throw us out of here, Sherlock."

"Not if you're quiet," Sherlock promised, and slipped his lips over John's prick.

"Fucking  _Christ,_ " he gasped, hands moving to Sherlock's hair. Sherlock purred approvingly, moving his mouth up and down his cock, drawing out his pleasure like music from a violin. John groaned, hips trembling, and Sherlock put his hands against them to steady him.

"You— _Jesus."_

"You seem to be forgetting my name," Sherlock admonished, slipping his lips off his cock with a smirk, and looking up at him from underneath his lashes.

" _Sherlock,_ " John corrected, vainly trying to push Sherlock back against his groin. "Sherlock,  _please, fuck,_ "

"Quiet, John, or this will be over far too soon," Sherlock warned, and took him into his mouth again.

"Mmmm," John complied, hands cradling his head again, not tugging or pulling or being otherwise bossy because he knew, somehow, that Sherlock detested it. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned back, murmuring encouragements to him and rolling his hips smoothly into Sherlock's mouth. "mmm, Yeah, Sherlock, yes,  _god,_ you're so good, mmm."

Sherlock twirled his tongue around the shaft, taking him as deep as he could go, which was quite deep, because John was right, he  _was_ good at this. But only for John. John who was brilliant and amazing and Sherlock was so in love with him, and if only he could tell him,  _fuck—_ he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, dropping one hand from John's hip so he could shove his hands down his own trousers and stroke himself in time to John's jerky thrusts.

"I— _yeah,_ fuck, Christ, Sherlock, babe, yes," John said raggedly.

_Babe,_ Sherlock thought dimly, trying to control his inevitable orgasm so that they could both climax at the same time, John had never called him that before and it was surprisingly flattering.

"Sherlock, I'm—going to,  _fuck, yeah,_ " He could feel John's hips stuttering as he tried not shove himself inside his mouth, could feel his own belly tightening in a familiar sensation.

"Mmm," Sherlock said against his prick, and he looked up to see John, biting his lips while his eyes were wide and bright, trying not to scream while he came.

" _Ooh, Christ, fuck, fuck, Sherlock, Sherlock,"_ he whispered, his grip tightening in Sherlock's curls while his body trembled and Sherlock's own come ran over his fist, and his mouth filled with John's. It was never the taste of it that Sherlock enjoyed, not really, obviously not, but the sheer knowledge that it was  _John's,_ and a part of John was inside him, and yes, that sounded so ridiculously filthy and these were calories that Sherlock didn't mind swallowing, not at all.

"Get up, get up," John said shakily, dragging him up by his shoulders and knocking their mouths together clumsily. "Christ, you  _nutter,_ you  _brilliant nutter,_ " he rasped, and kissed him, hard, hand curled in his hair and pushing him against his mouth almost painfully but it was  _so good._

"Je t'aime," Sherlock whispered against his mouth. "Je t'aime, J'taime, J'taime," and held him tightly against his body and kissed him back.

_I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Do you know that? Can you understand me? I know you can't, you brilliant, extraordinary person, you don't know French, and that's just as well, because I don't know what you'd say in reply, and whatever it is, it would break me, fuck, it would finish me off for good._

Finally, they pulled away and Sherlock used the silken handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe his hand and his mouth.

"That was, did you just use that?" John laughed, taking it from him and shoving it into his pocket. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to keep that."

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock muttered, opening the door. Thankfully, it was still empty. They washed their hands at the sink, and Sherlock wiped them off some more and he said, "Let's have dinner."

John frowned. "Okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not  _here,_ " he said, the  _obviously_ implied. "Outside. I can't stand a further second here."

"No one's going to notice?" John asked suspiciously.

"Don't be  _boring,_ " Sherlock complained in reply.

* * *

It was raining, and they hadn't brought an umbrella, and Sherlock couldn't care  _less._ Because John was laughing in response to something that Sherlock had said, and they were holding hands and walking down the street, and they just had dinner together, like an actual  _date,_  and London breathed around them, pulsing and loud and quiet and whispering and vivid, and Sherlock wondered if he'd ever been this happy in his  _life._

"No, no," Sherlock answered, giggling, even as the rain dripped down from his hair and onto his shoulders. "It turned out to be the  _squirrel,_ and wasn't that a right surprise."

John chuckled. "Bit of an anti climax," he agreed, shaking his hair so that the water droplets clinging to it cascaded all over Sherlock. Sherlock knew that it was ridiculous to be jealous of those stupid raindrops, which were so close to John, not when he could just as easily pull John closer and wrap and arm around his waist and kiss his temple. So he did.

"We're drenched, Sherlock, you're going to fall sick and your brother will kill me," John replied, all the same leaning against Sherlock a little more.

"Oh, don't worry. It's barely even midnight, the party's still in full swing, no one will have noticed."

"That's not even what I was saying," John muttered, leaning his drenched head against Sherlock's shoulder. After a while he said, "Do you know what this is? It's  _romantic."_

Sherlock scoffed just for the sake of scoffing even though  _yes it was devastatingly romantic and wasn't that such a normal, ordinary thing to think? And Sherlock wasn't ordinary, god no, but John was right, if this was romance Sherlock wanted to curl up in it and sleep forever, even though he'd never admit to that out loud._

John was going to say something in reply to Sherlock's scoff when they suddenly heard a shout of alarm from an alleyway to their right, someone saying something that sounded suspiciously like, "Get off me!"

"Sherlock," John whispered, disentangling himself from Sherlock's arm immediately, looking to their right. "Someone—"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, shoving down the momentary irritation at the loss of John's warmth. Never mind, there was someone in trouble, obviously, and—there—

Between the two tall buildings, in the grimy alleyway, a woman was being pinned down by a man while the other snatched her purse away from her, turning it over and shaking out its contents. Two men who would most definitely have weapons, guns and the like, and John was standing in front of them and he was going to say something and  _no definitely not, John was in danger and Sherlock wasn't going to—_

"Hey!" he shouted, walking down the path, and Sherlock felt like he was going to explode from panic. Fine, it was fine, Sherlock could think of seventeen different ways to incapacitate them from seventeen different angles, he was already thinking up scenarios, keeping close to John, because if they  _touched John..._

"You got a problem, mate?" the man asked, looking up from the woman's purse. "Turn around and walk away, this is none of your business."

"You're making it my business," John replied casually.  _Brilliant, brave John, what on earth was he doing_.

"Oh, thank God," the woman said, running over to them, before the man could stop her, and falling into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock looked down at her, alarmed, before moving her away from the thugs.

"It's okay," he said automatically. "It's alright. Go on, run."

"Look," John said easily, stepping forward. "Just leave her alone, okay?"

"You seem eager to kill yourself, mate," the taller one said, the one with a recent heart surgery, and Sherlock could incapacitate him in a second, just needed to get the right moment—

And then suddenly the other one, the larger one, the one that Sherlock hadn't even  _noticed_ because he was a  _fucking idiot,_ grabbed John by the scruff of his neck and right hooked him across the face, and Sherlock immediately tried to run at him, because  _how fucking dare he-_ , and John stumbled, holding out a hand to steady himself, but then, the woman who had been sobbing heart brokenly a moment ago curled her hand into his jacket and pulled him back and pinned something that felt frighteningly like a syringe against his neck.

"Don't. Move," she hissed.

"Christ, Sher—" John started, before the man drew out a gun and pressed it to John's head. John stared back at him, eyes wide and frightened, and Sherlock had never been so terrified in his life, he couldn't fucking  _breathe,_ and if only he hadn't been so bloody  _scared_ for John he could have elbowed the woman out of the way, but he paid for those two seconds of panic, yes, he did.

John crumpled to the ground with a knee to his gut, and then he felt the syringe push in, and he couldn't move, couldn't get to John,  _John, John, John—_

"Jim Moriarty sends his regards," she whispered into his ear, just as everything inside of him twisted painfully, and the world faded to black.

 


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock was vaguely aware of a dull pounding in his ears.

Smoky, thick, blackness swirled around in his head as he tried to make sense of it.  _Where was he_?  _What—_ he had to open his eyes, if he could just—god, his  _head,_ it  _hurt._ A groan escaped his lips as he pulled his eyes open, the rasp of his eyelashes dry and gritty. His mouth felt swollen and fuzzy, and he couldn't  _move,_ where the  _hell..._

 _I've been injected with something,_ he thought.  _Think. Wake up. Wake up. What else?_ But why would he be injected with anything, because Sherlock had stopped, hadn't he? John had made him stop and— _John._ Fuck. Where was John?

He had to get to John, but—shit. His hands. Hands were tied, he couldn't move them.  _Kidnapped,_ he thought. Alright. Fine. But he had to get to John, because if he was tied up then presumably John was as well, and that was unacceptable. If only his  _head_ would stop hurting quite so much he could actually  _think_ and get out of this.

 _Chair,_ he realised.  _I'm tied to a chair._ Knotting was thick, tight. Someone experienced had done this. Where was he? The room was dark, he could barely make out anything.  _God fucking damn it, where was John?_ He tried to push back the swelling panic rising up in his throat because if he panicked he wouldn't be able to think and he had to think because he still had his brain as of now and he would use it so he could  _make a plan and fix this._ Water trickled somewhere. The smell of faint exhaust, grey, cement—

_Abandoned car park._

"Wakey, wakey sunshine."

The voice cut through the syrupy darkness swimming inside of his head like a knife. It was loud and sharp and jangled everything inside of him, and then he remembered the whispered words of that woman— _Jim Moriarty sends his regards—_ the prick of a needle, John,  _John,_ on his knees, and—

"Say something, Sherlock, I'd rather you weren't dead," Jim carolled, his footsteps coming closer.  _Tap tap tap._

Sherlock blinked several times, his surroundings becoming clearer by the second. His wrists felt sore where they were bound behind the chair, and his hair was flopping uncomfortably into his eyes. He breathed deeply, sending oxygen to his brain, calming himself because the most important thing as of now was to  _keep calm._

"Where's John?" he hissed, not sounding calm at all.

Jim was in front of him now, smiling crookedly, dressed in old jeans and a hoodie. "Safe," he replied. "For now. Depends on you, though." He lifted a hand and stroked a finger down the side of his face, crooking it under his chin and tilting his head upwards.

"I like you tied up like this," he mused, brushing a thumb across his lips. "If only you could see yourself now. Dear me."

"This is between you and me," Sherlock said, his voice not shaking at all even though everything inside of him was, his Mind Palace in chaos and panic clawing its way out of his gut in an inevitable scream. Because he couldn't see John, he didn't know where John was and John was  _not safe._ "Let John go."

Jim giggled. "Funny," he pronounced, his hand running down his chin to rest against his throat, in a barely perceptible squeeze. "You're an absolute riot, sweetheart."

"Leave him out of this." Sherlock swallowed, all too aware that Jim would be able to feel his Adam's apple bobbing under his palm, sniff out his nervousness like a bloodhound.

"No," he decided. "Absolutely not. Johnny boy is leverage, dearest. He's also a vital part of my plan." Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to his forehead in the mockery of a kiss and Sherlock felt like emptying out the entire contents of his stomach.

"Right then," he said, moving back and clapping his hands. " _Seb!"_ he called, and someone grunted from behind Sherlock, as if he had been standing there behind him this  _entire_ time and Sherlock hadn't even  _noticed._

"This is Seb," Jim trilled, and Seb stepped out from behind him to stand next to Jim; tall, well built, drug addict, someone who had been living off the streets until Jim had clearly picked him off and put a gun in his hand instead of a needle. He looked at Sherlock, but there was nothing in his eyes to tell him how he felt, what he was thinking; they were icy blue and dead, like Jim's.

"Seb knows exactly where you lap dog is," Jim continued. "And he also has a gun. So. If you don't co operate with me right now, or if you try to run, escape, or injure me in  _any_ way, darling, Seb is going to shoot a hole right through your pet's skull. I'm afraid he won't look so pretty with blood pouring down his face, now, will he?"

_Don't panic, stop panicking, John doesn't need you to panic right now, he needs you stay calm and think and get out of this._

"You swear that if I co operate, you won't hurt John?" Sherlock asked, looking at Jim defiantly.

Jim shrugged. "Much," he responded.

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "I will do what you want me to do, but I need your word that you won't touch John."

"I'm touched that you believe in  _my word,_ as you so poetically put it," Jim purred. "And you're not in a position to make demands, now, are you, my sweet? But very well. Seb, leave the puppy alone until I tell you to kick it, okay?"

Seb grunted in reply, his eyes still locked on Sherlock's.

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you."

Jim looked down at him, his eyes cold and fish like, his mouth turning up in a smirk. "We can do away with the formalities, Sherlock, give in to our baser instincts, you know." He waved a hand dismissively. "Seb, out."

The boy walked away, then, leaving them both alone, his footsteps growing fainter until silence enveloped them, cloying and suffocating.

"I've enjoyed this," Jim murmured, stepping closer until his knees brushed Sherlock's legs. Sherlock tried vainly to slip his hands out of the knots, but they were done fast, and his skin was chaffing under them. "This little game of ours. Making you dance."

He raised an eyebrow at him. "We can have this conversation just as well with me untied."

Jim laughed, high pitched, maniacal. He reached below his hoodie into the waistband of his jeans to extract a blade, sharp, thin, gleaming maliciously in the darkened room.

"But I've had enough now," Jim continued, ignoring him, placing the flat of the blade against his cheek. The metal was icy cold, and if Sherlock had felt groggy before, he was wide awake now, painfully aware of the blade digging into his skin and the fact that John was here somewhere, hurt, unconscious with Sherlock  _unable to help him._ "We've been courting too long, love, it's about time I made a proposal."

He kept the blade against his skin with one hand, the other moving to top button of his shirt, fiddling with it until he popped it open.

"Is that what you want to do, then? Fuck me? Bo-ring," Sherlock commented, yawning.

Jim smiled crookedly at him, fingers smoothly undoing the remaining buttons. "Tempting, but no," he replied, moving the tip of the knife slowly down his jaw, his neck, nudging the material of the shirt aside until his torso lay cold and exposed, tiny goose bumps erupting on his skin. "I'm just playing with you until the real fun begins."

"The real fun," Sherlock echoed.

"Mmm, yes," Jim agreed, drawing lines across his abdomen with the blade, brushing it right across the skin above the waistline of his trousers. "Because today is just a demo. Just a teensy glimpse into the things I can do."

"What, pick me off the street with a couple of paid thugs and molest me in an abandoned car park? Am I supposed to feel threatened by this?"

Jim snarled, suddenly, knotting his fingers into Sherlock's hair and pulling it back, exposing his throat and placing the sharpened edge of the blade against the sensitive flesh. "That pretty mouth, Sherlock," he whispered, his lips a hair's breadth away from his own. "Have you ever thought what you'd look like without it? I wonder, if I carved your lips off right now, how much would you  _bleed..."_

"Intimidating me while I'm tied up is easy," Sherlock goaded.

Jim chuckled, leaning forward and taking his bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock felt his stomach roll, but remained still. "You're all talk, poppet. Inside you're as frightened as a mouse, and you know what, you  _should_ be."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm not," he replied.

"See, Sherlock, I have friends in high places. Friends who are willing to invest in me. They like what they see and they know what I can do," he whispered against his mouth. "Friends who would have that brother of yours screaming for his mummy."

"Liar," Sherlock whispered back.

"Why do you think brother dearest isn't here? I'm sure he told you that he had an  _urgent situation_ to attend." Jim threw his head back and laughed. "Everyone's a cat after a mouse, it's  _lovely."_

"You're sixteen," Sherlock frowned. "You don't have that kind of power. You're a  _child."_

"As are you, and look what you've got in that big ol' brain of yours," Jim cackled. He moved forward, straddling Sherlock's lap and hooking his arms on the back of the chair, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's. "But don't worry, it's not me exactly, honey, I'll tell you again, since you obviously didn't hear me:  _Friends in high places._ I have what they want, I'm clever, like you, fancy that. Aren't ordinary people adorable?"

"Where are you going with this?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice level, even though he felt something that felt suspiciously like horror twist his guts.

"We're getting to it, my lovely,  _patience,_ " Jim murmured, running a hand down his chest, lifting the blade to rest it against Sherlock's neck, right at his carotid artery.

"Let me guess," Sherlock drawled. "You're going to kill me."

" _Kill you_?" Jim echoed, astonished. "Let's not be  _obvious,_ Sherlock. I mean, I am going to kill you. But I don't want to rush it. I'm saving it up for something special, you see."

"Charming."

Jim giggled. "No, see while your body is delectable and I'd eat you up with a spoon if I could, what I really want, gorgeous, is this brain of yours," he brought the knife up, resting it against his temple. "Oh, darling, this brilliant organ of yours, it's oh so sexy and I could just  _die_ thinking about all the ways I want to use it. So let's strike a deal, Sherlock, a business deal."

Sherlock breathed deeply through his nose. "I'm listening."

"We were made for each other, you know," Jim cooed, cradling the back of his head in a gesture that would have been soothing had it been anyone else, but made his entire stomach turn instead. "God, what would I do without you? I'll be so sad when I finally finish you off, I mean, let's be honest, baby, you complete me. We'd be so perfect together, nothing like the ordinary, dull people crawling on the surface of the earth like flies. We're not vermin like them, are we, sexy? You think you hate me, but who you really hate is  _yourself,_ and that's just terrible, really terrible, because I don't hate myself, and we're the same, you and I."

"Just. Tell. Me," Sherlock snarled.

"Shhh," Jim said soothingly, putting a finger against his lips. "Listen then, pet. First thing's first; you're going to tell your little cockslut boyfriend that you don't want him anymore. I'd tell you I wanted you to let him down easy, but then, I'd be lying. So. Then, you know what I want you to do? You're going to run away with me. Oh yes, you heard that right. And don't worry your pretty little head about your brother, poppet, even the  _British Government_ wouldn't be able to stop you. And then, well. We'll see. I have big plans for the both of us, Sherlock. Big plans."

"And if I refuse?" Sherlock asked him, voice steady  _because he couldn't crack right now, he couldn't, he had to stay strong because Jim had John and John was precious and important and John was not going to be a casualty in this ridiculous fucking game, this game that wasn't a game anymore because now he had involved John and that was a bloody big mistake. He wouldn't, Sherlock would not allow it._

Jim smiled, a spark of something in his brown eyes that hadn't been there before, had never been there. It reminded Sherlock of fires that burnt and raged and licked your skin clean off.

"I was hoping you'd ask me that, because I just  _love_ showing off, like you. So I'll tell you a little secret then, shall I?" he leaned forward so his lips brushed Sherlock's ear. "If you  _refuse,_ all your little friends... _will die._ "

"John," Sherlock said in a horrified whisper.

"Oh  _John_ has something special coming for him, don't you worry about him, pet. Wonder what he'll sound like with his skin being ripped off? Oh, I'm so _curious._  Mmm, but not just him, not just him..." Jim tapped the blade against his cheekbone, looking at him expectantly like a dog that was supposed to perform a trick.

Sherlock frowned at him, trying to will his body to stop trembling because Jim was on top of him and he'd be able to feel it and Jim had no right to know terrified he was at the moment.

"Oh, I forgot  _you don't have friends,_ but we both know that's quite true, dearest, who's that pretty little thing that lives in your neighbourhood? I have photos, you know, such  _horrible_ photos, it'd be a shame if they were somehow  _leaked..."_

"Irene." Sherlock felt his heart thud against his ribcage, and he wondered if it was possible for it to beat right out of his chest, because that's what he felt like, right now, he felt like he was slowly being strangled, everything inside of him being cut up into bleeding, wretched pieces.

Jim gave a triumphant smile. "Clever boy," he praised, kissing his cheek."Oh, the things that could happen to her. She's just too pretty for her own good. But you're missing someone, Sherlock Holmes, you're missing one more person..."

"It would be extremely ambitious of you to kill Mycroft," Sherlock lashed out. "You can't possibly be serious."

Jim laughed, delighted at his obvious disbelief. "See, but that's the  _magic_ of it, Sherlock! Imagine how shocked you're going to be when you find you brother's cold, stiff body and realise that  _you_ were the one that did that, oh, how  _guilty_ you'll feel, it'd just  _kill you._ "

"You're a psychopath." Sherlock hissed.

"Like looking into a mirror," Jim said into his ear.

* * *

When he was untied, Sherlock couldn't walk for a few moments. His knees gave way and he fell, pain shooting through his legs. Jim laughed like it was the most brilliant thing he'd ever seen and nudged his hand with a foot.

"Get up and get to your boyfriend, love, you have things to do, as I remember."

"I need time," Sherlock hissed, trying in vain to get up but there was some unknown substance still running through his veins and his limbs felt weak. "You need to give me time."

"Three days," Jim said, hauling him up with a hand and shoving three pale fingers into his face. "I am giving you three days and if you take a second longer than that I will break one bone in Johnny boy's body for each hour you delay."

"Don't hurt him," Sherlock snarled, gripping onto Jim's shoulders. He didn't feel human. He felt like he was made of ice, and it was cracking and splintering and he was melting, and it  _hurt,_ God, it  _hurt. "_ If you hurt him, I'll, I'll—"

"Adorable," Jim pronounced, clasping his fingers around Sherlock's wrists and removing them. "You look so sexy when you're trying to intimidate me, I almost come in my pants."

"You'll give me three days," Sherlock reminded him, swallowing down his retort. "Please. Don't hurt him."

"You have my word of honour," Jim replied mockingly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "Now your pet's a bit broken at the moment, so I advise you fetch him and get out of here. Down that corridor you go. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes," he stood on his tip toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek before sauntering away into the darkness, leaving Sherlock to tremble, alone. He pressed his fingers to temples, closing his eyes and trying to get his shaking body to still. Because panic would do him no good, he needed a  _plan._

But first he needed to find John.

As Jim had promised, John was relatively unhurt, and slowly waking up from consciousness, sprawled on a dirty mattress somewhere at the back.

_John. Alive. Unhurt. Oh, fuck._

Sherlock took a great breath of relief, realising he hadn't been  _breathing_ this whole time, and really how could he, when he was half-frantic with horror and he had thought that Jim must have  _killed_ John because he was nothing short of pure evil.

He fell to his knees beside John, who he noticed with a twist of fury, had a purple bruise swelling on his temple,  _(right hook)_ his shirt un tucked and his jacket nowhere to seen. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing, his heartbeat a little faster than usual, but that was probably because of the drug, and  _oh dear god he was okay, he was okay, it was going to fine._

"John," Sherlock gasped, "John, John," he shook him, and John groaned, loudly, and Sherlock felt his heart start to beat again.

He mumbled something intelligible and squirmed a bit on the mattress. "Sh..."

"It's me, John, it's me, Sherlock, get up, please, we need to get out of here. John, please,  _please,_ wake up, tell me you're okay, John," he patted his cheek, and John's eyelids fluttered a bit, so he hooked an arm underneath his waist and hauled him up, and John fell against his chest, weak-limbed and pliant, like a rag doll. Sherlock shivered, thinking of how easy it would have been to do _anything_ to John in this state, anything at all.

"Sher...lock..." John slurred, fingers clawing weakly at his shirt. "Sherl..Sherlock?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, stroking his hair and pressing his lips to his bruised temple. "It's me, we're fine, you're fine, wake up, John, please."

"Yes," John mumbled, nosing into Sherlock's chest. "Shit...Sherlock. Head hurts."

"I know, I know," Sherlock soothed, hooking an arm around his back and hauling them both up with difficulty. His legs shook when John slumped against him, but he tightened his grip around John's waist and began to manoeuvre them out of the room. "You're going to be fine."

"I— _fuck,_ what happ—what happened?" John demanded, trying to walk in-step with him and failing miserably.

"Those thugs injected you with something," Sherlock said. "They took my wallet, but that's all."

"Christ," John replied, his voice shaking. "Hate London."

Sherlock gave a weak laugh that almost made him choke because he couldn't laugh right now, he couldn't, not with John half-dead against his shoulder and Jim's voice whispering in his brain, tightening like steel bands and repeating themselves over and over,  _like looking into a mirror like looking into a mirror like looking_

He managed to somehow find the exit and trudge outside. There was another grimy building in front of them, and they seemed to have emerged into a filthy alley way, rubbish bins lined up at the side and lewd graphitti scribbled on the walls. Sherlock's breath condensed in front of his face and John shivered. It was cold.

"Sorry," Sherlock murmured, pulling away from him for a second so he could shrug out of his own jacket and throw it over John's, even though it did barely anything and his clothes were still slightly damp from the rain from when they— _no don't think about that,_ Sherlock screamed at himself as a lump formed in his throat. "Here," Sherlock said, pulling it snugly over him. "Come on, we need to get you to an A&E."

"No, no," John mumbled, trying to slip out of the jacket even as Sherlock pulled them out of the alleyway that smelt like piss and onto the road, his shoes meeting puddles of dirty rainwater and squelchy mud. "Take it, you're cold."

"Keep it," Sherlock snapped, even as his body gave an involuntary shiver.

"Your stupid coat," John snapped back, tripping a bit and gripping onto Sherlock's waist tighter. "Idiot, why didn't...why didn't you  _wear_ it."

"Didn't know we'd be mugged," Sherlock replied dryly, feeling relief blossom in his chest when he saw a cab speeding down the empty road. He raised a hand to flag it and it halted in front of them. The driver looked suspiciously at their bedraggled figures.

"You both look a bit dodgy to me, mate," he said dubiously.

"I'll pay you double," Sherlock promised. "Just get us to the hospital."

"Sounds good t'me," he said approvingly, and Sherlock opened the door and shoved John inside, slipping after him himself.

John fell against him with a sigh, his skin slightly feverish. "Sorry, I just—can't, how are—how are you? Are you hurt?" John patted clumsily at his chest as if checking for injuries.

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, encircling his fingers around John's wrist and bringing it down. "You've been—"

His mobile rang, then, and Sherlock didn't even realise that Moriarty must have slipped it back into his pocket.

 _Mycroft._ His name sent a sudden fizzle of fear down his spine, and Jim's voice spoke in his ear again.

He answered it with shaking fingers. "Hello?"

"Tell me where you are this instant," Mycroft's smooth, cultured voice spoke in the end, speaking in cold, clipped tones.

"Mycroft—"

"Do  _not_ play games with me right now, Sherlock,  _I am not in the mood._ What makes you think that you can  _faff about in London_ past midnight without even telling anyone? I was  _busy_ , I do not have time for you to be acting like a child, do you have  _any idea_ how worried Vivienne has been? Do you know what could have happened to the both of you? I don't have enough men to send after you right now, I cannot—"

"I am so sorry to be of such inconvenience to you," Sherlock interrupted acidly and Mycroft almost growled from the other end.

"I told you to  _not play games with me,_ " he fumed. "Now tell me where on bloody earth you are so I can send someone to collect you."

"Don't you have enough surveillance on me?"

"Tell me where the fuck you are, Sherlock, or so God help me—"

"We're going to St Barts," Sherlock replied, thinking,  _If I mess this up I will never be able to argue with my pompous twat of a brother again._

" _St Barts?"_ Mycroft almost yelled. "Why are you—are you alright? Is John alright? You utter  _imbecile,_ I knew something would happen. Are you hurt?"

"We're fine, I'll tell you once we get home," Sherlock promised. "Just send us a car. No need to turn up yourself, I'm having a rather nice time not having to see your cake-stuffed face—"

"It'll be there in fifteen minutes," Mycroft cut him. "And  _pick up your bloody mobile."_ After that he hung up.

"Mycroft?" John asked him from where his face was buried in Sherlock's arm.

"Mmm," Sherlock confirmed, leaning his head against John's forehead and breathing him in.  _I cannot allow anything to happen to him. I cannot. I'm sorry, John, I'm so so sorry.._

"Wanted to...ask you something..." John slurred.

"Yes."

John yawned enormously before speaking again. "This evening," he said with some effort. "You. French. Said...something. When we—" he stopped for a few seconds as if he were struggling to remember. "kissing." He finally said. "In French," he repeated, as if emphasizing his point. "Je—je—something."

"Je'taime," Sherlock answered, another uncomfortable lump forming in his throat.

"Mmm," John agreed. "W'does it...mean?"

Sherlock gave a laugh that sounded more like a sob, the force of it almost racking his entire body. "I love you," he choked out, because John was drugged and he wouldn't be able to remember this when he woke up, and the pain of telling John that he loved him when he would be aware of it, when he'd be in a position to say something back, was too much. Because he couldn't say that to him, not now, when he was expected to do something else entirely. "It means I love you, John." He bit his lip from preventing another sob from escaping, because he wasn't a child, god no, and he was _stronger than this._ This was for John,  _for John,_ and that's all that mattered.

"Oh," John whispered. "Good. Love you too, Sh'lock."

Sherlock waited for him to say something else, anything else, but then he realised that John had already fallen asleep.

And Sherlock pressed his nose into John's hair and tried to remember how to breathe, because John, John was perfect, he was better than locked room mysteries and crime scenes and pig feet soaked in formaldehyde, better than walks in the rain in London at midnight and Tchaikovsky and Paganini and Bach, and he was better than dancing together in Sherlock's bedroom, better than snogs in the loo and making love in the midst of chemistry equipment and murder articles, he was fascinating and beautiful and precious and it made Sherlock want to rip his heart out and throw it on the street because it did no good to him, not here, no good at all. If this was what loving someone felt like, he didn't want it, fuck no, it wasn't supposed to  _hurt this much,_ he thought, why did it  _hurt_ so much? John said that he loved him, and Sherlock wished it was true, he really did, because who in their right mind would love him? And Sherlock felt like he was dying, slowly dying, because less than two hours ago he had been giggling with John in rain-soaked clothes and he had actually felt  _happy,_ and even though maybe he wasn't a good person and he didn't deserve it, but it was cruel, wasn't it, for the universe to give it to him and then decide to take it away?

"I love you," he whispered into John's hair, feeling like he was breaking, bit by bit. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he repeated, because John was asleep and couldn't hear a single word.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you go, I've moved all updated chapters from ff.net to here. You'll have to wait a while for the next chapter, so feel free to comment while you do!  
> Warnings for heavy angst.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong, and John couldn't quite place his finger on it, and that bothered him, because he was good at this, this being understanding Sherlock and being one of the few people on Earth who just  _got_ him, without either of them trying hard. It was effortless, it was poetry, it flowed like the deep dark chocolate of Sherlock's voice.

And  _yet._

It had been wrong ever since he had woken up in a hospital bed, his head aching and his mouth dry like he'd just swallowed sand. He hadn't remembered anything except a walk in the rain and a knee to his gut, and a woman screaming and Sherlock's wide, grey, terrified eyes. And something else, something that whispered along the edges of his consciousness but it was always dancing in and out of his reach, and however hard John tried, he could not  _remember._ So he decided to let it go, because if it was important, Sherlock would tell him, he trusted him to do that, because that's what they did, they  _trusted_ each other.

So when he had groaned and woken up with a hand clutching his head and his body aching and hurting in all sorts of ways and in all sorts of places, he looked for Sherlock, and there he was, seated in a chair too far away for his taste, something odd in his eyes that John didn't recognize. He looked awful, John registered; his hair was an insane mess and his face was gaunt and his cheeks were hollow, he looked almost  _haunted,_ John thought, and he wanted to pull him close and wrap his arms around and comfort him, for whatever reason.

But Sherlock didn't act like he needed comfort at all.

"You're awake," he stated, his voice clipped and cold and not at all like what John was used to. This was Sherlock's Other People voice, the one he used for people he didn't know and cared two shits for.

"I-uh, yeah," John agreed, trying to sit up, and he saw Sherlock flinch for a second, something raw and unguarded cross his paler-than-usual face, but it was gone the next second, and Sherlock continued to look at him as he struggled to get up. "Shit," he groaned, clutching his head.

Sherlock stood up, his lips pursed, and walked slowly over to the edge of John's bed, looking down at him with an expression John couldn't place.

"What happened?" John asked, reaching forward for Sherlock's wrist, but Sherlock stepped back, his face a cold mask and John frowned at him.

"You were drugged and you were admitted because your ribs are bruised and you were unconscious. The drugs have been pumped out of your system, and your ribs have been bandaged. I'll get the nurse, and you can be discharged. Mycroft's car is waiting outside," he said to him, and then left without another word.

John kept frowning after him, unable to say anything.

After that, Sherlock's entire conversation consisted of him thrusting a bag at him and saying, "Aunt Vivienne sent clothes, get dressed, we're leaving."

"Um," John replied, taking the bag from him and setting it on the floor. Sherlock was about to leave again before he grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. Sherlock froze under his touch, turning back and regarding him with a cool, grey gaze.

"Do you need something?" he asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

"No," John replied, still holding on to his wrist. "Is everything okay? You look awful. You haven't even changed, have you eaten something?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied in the same blank voice.

"You don't look okay," John challenged softly.

"As ever, John, your deductions are scintillating," Sherlock said scathingly, pulling his wrist away. "Now do us all a favour and get dressed so we can get home."

John frowned at him. "I-okay,"

After that he left again, the heavy metal door taking ages to close shut.

John felt his head twinge again, but the nurse had assured him that it was nothing serious, just the aftermath of being drugged. He'd been given painkillers and bandages for his ribs if they still hurt, presumably they were all with Sherlock or Mycroft, who was filling out the discharge papers.

He swallowed, looking at the door for a long time before finally changing into the clothes Vivienne had sent him, his fingers shaking a bit even though he had no idea why.

If he had been drugged, had Sherlock not been? It was around 7 am in the morning, according to the clock in the room, so he had been here overnight, and Sherlock must have been as well. So why hadn't he been admitted either? He was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing at the reception yesterday, his plum shirt and trousers and suit jacket, although they were filthy and wrinkled now. He had looked like he hadn't slept all night.

He stepped outside into the corridor, his ribs still sore. Sherlock was sitting on a bench outside, elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.

"Sherlock?" John called, stepping towards him so he could put his hand on his shoulder. Sherlock immediately jerked up, looking up at John for a second with another unguarded expression on his face before he rearranged it into his previous perfectly put together mask. He could see him better now, see the insane tangle of his hair and the dark circles under his eyes. His lip was split down the middle, the crimson stark against the pale pink of his mouth.

"Right," Sherlock said, standing up and reaching forward to take John's bag from him. "I have your medicine, and your clothes, and Mycroft's waiting in the car, so come on. Can you walk?" He said all of this brusquely and quickly, as if he didn't care one way or another it.

"Yeah, I can walk," John replied, staring at him. "Sherlock, you—"

"Don't," he interrupted him. "Just don't."

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" John carried on doggedly, stepping in front of Sherlock when he tried to slip past him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed and glared at him.

"Nothing," he replied simply, looking down at him from his shock of hair. His eyes didn't look right. The line of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth, something was so bloody wrong and John couldn't figure out what it was. "Come on."

John decided to let it go at that moment, he was sleepy and tired and confused and maybe Sherlock was just tired, or maybe he needed another nicotine patch, or maybe he was just bored. They'd figure it out. It was fine.

It was fine.

* * *

A sharp twinge in his ribs woke John up. He hissed, hands immediately flying to his side even as his brain struggled to wake up along with the rest of his body.

"Ow," he said, trying to sit up, and then immediately felt warm hands on his shoulders, Sherlock saying, "Don't move so much, you'll hurt yourself more. I have pain killers."

John cracked open an eye to see Sherlock in front of him, holding out a pill bottle. "Just one," he said, in the same odd, clipped tone he had been using, eyes blank and almost frigid, pushing the bottle into John's hand. John gripped it instinctively, not wanting it to fall, as Sherlock's hand fell away from his, and it felt strange, like he was avoiding even the slightest brush of skin on skin.

The pain subsided and John leaned against the window, looking outside as the trees whished by, bottle still gripped in his hand. He put it down on the seat and cleared his throat, feeling Sherlock's gaze on him and wondering how to ask him the question that was bothering him ever since the hospital.

"What happened while I was drugged?" he finally said, looking up at Sherlock at the opposite seat.  
Sherlock put down the book he was reading (some sensationalist crime shite, which just went to show that Sherlock wasn't reading it at all) and narrowed his eyes at John.

"I don't know," he answered shortly. "I was drugged too, remember? Fortunately for you I have enough experience with narcotic substances that it did not affect me the same way it affected you." He brought his gaze down to the book again, clearly signalling the end of their conversation. John wanted to reach across and rip it from his hands and shake him and shake him until Sherlock stopped lying right to his face and just told him what the  _fuck_ had happened.

"I'm not as much of an idiot as you take me to be," he said instead, looking down at his lap. They were maybe two feet apart but John felt like it was too much, immeasurable distance between them like an ocean and it didn't make sense because they weren't like this, they were two sides of a coin and if John couldn't understand Sherlock he didn't know what came after that.

He could feel the gears turning in Sherlock's brain, could feel the words forming on his mouth in response to that statement, and then felt it all stop as Sherlock drew further into himself.

"I don't know what you're talking about, John," he said tiredly, putting down the stupid book and rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. John wanted to kiss him. John wanted to punch him. John was terrified.

"No?" John said, confusion making him angry. "I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I'm talking about something being wrong and you lying to my face because you think I'm too stupid to understand when you're not telling me the truth," he snapped.

Sherlock looked back at him evenly, eyes unblinking and focused. John was used to that gaze, it was a familiar sensation, Sherlock's grey-blue-green gaze sweeping over him while he deduced things like rugby and homework and toothpaste. It was the same look, only tinged by something cold and indifferent.

"I've told you everything you need to know," he finally replied evenly.

"You don't get to decide that," John snapped back.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock spat, slamming the book down on the train seat. "Is this some kind of relationship thing I'm expected to follow? Precisely why I don't get into these things, John, they're messy and there are all these  _feelings_ and expectations involved and believe me, I'm sorry for being such a  _disappointment_ to you." Then he stood up, throwing open the doors of their carriage and stepping out, slamming it shut as he went.

John breathed heavily, trying to control his urge to follow him and drag him back by the collar of his shirt. His head started hurting again, and he looked at the bottle of painkillers, decided  _what the hell_ and downed three with a bottle of water.

They made the pain go away, but they also made him feel sick, and sleepy. John stared dumbly at the seat Sherlock had vacated, ignoring the edges of panic that were beginning to build in his throat. _Precisely why I don't get in these things, John._ What things? This? Relationships? With John? John had to admit that he had always been frightened of Sherlock getting bored of him, of what they had—because Sherlock did that, didn't he? He got bored. And John...honestly, what did John have to offer? He wasn't interesting or exciting or terribly good looking—truly speaking, how long would someone like him be able to hold Sherlock's interest? But they had been  _fine,_ John thought, more than fine, John was disgustingly in love and he had thought Sherlock was happy. How could things change so suddenly?

John swallowed. Sherlock didn't mean those things. Of course he didn't. He'd come and say sorry in that fumbling way of his, and they'd be alright—they had to be, because John didn't know what he would do if they weren't.

He found Sherlock at the back of the train, breathing smoke from his nose like a dragon, cigarette held between two slender fingertips. Smoke blew out of the open gate, trees and wind whizzing past, blowing a few strands of dark hair from his forehead.

"John," Sherlock said blankly, turning around to look at him, and John grabbed the lapels of his shirt and slammed him against the wall and pressed his mouth against his. The cigarette fell, and John licked into Sherlock's surprised mouth, even though he tasted like smoke and John  _hated it._

"J-John," Sherlock shuddered against him, "People—people will—"

"You taste like smoke," John interrupted him, pressing his body against his, pinning him to the wall with his hips.

"We can't," Sherlock whispered, weakly putting a hand on John's shoulder to push him off. "I can't," he tried to say something else but John rolled his hips against him and it turned into a breathless moan.

"Why are you doing this to me?" John bit out, sucking a bruise onto Sherlock's jaw, now slightly rough with stubble.

Sherlock threw his head back against the metal wall, biting his lip so hard the flesh was white, one hand pushing John insistently against his crotch. "I'm not...doing anything," he panted.

"Sometimes I hate you, you know," John muttered. "And shh," His groin was achingly hard now, rubbing up against Sherlock's crotch agonizingly. "You don't tell me anything," he bit Sherlock's collarbone and Sherlock flailed underneath him.

"You can't kiss it out of me," Sherlock groaned, hips thrusting against John. "You can't— _fuck,_ John, not here—"

"Use your clever brain and tell me how long we have until someone passes," he muttered, gripping Sherlock's hips and pressing their cocks together, lips latched on Sherlock's neck.

"Ah—I—uh—about a minute, probably," Sherlock choked out, fingers entangling in John's hair. "Don't—make me come in my pants."

"Then fucking  _tell me,_ " John growled, pulling down his head so he could slant his mouth against his and kiss him. Sherlock moaned at the press of John's teeth against his bottom lip, opening his mouth to let him in.

"Nothing to tell," Sherlock whispered. "Kiss me."

John smirked against his lips, sucking on his tongue and practically humping his leg. "Tell me what you're doing, Sherlock."

"Nothing," he answered, " _Fuck,"_ he whispered, as John bit his lip.

"Liar," John breathed, and pulled away until his limbs weren't entangled in Sherlock's anymore. Sherlock stared back at him, tongue darting out to lick his kiss-red lips, hair dishevelled and falling into eyes that were unnaturally bright. He looked delicious. John wanted to devour him.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock grinned at him, a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Won't kiss me until I tell you what you want to hear?" he laughed humourlessly, straightening his collar and peeling himself from the wall, cheeks still flushed. "Punish someone who would care John," he said flippantly, taking out another cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

"Fuck you," John said, and he regretted it immediately and  _oh my god, what were they doing_?

"Washroom's right behind us," Sherlock offered. "But I suppose you'll do something pedestrian and dull like not letting me come until I tell you some non existent 'truth'. Use your brain a little, John, I'm sure you'll get there eventually." He blew out some smoke.

John turned around and went back to their carriage, afraid that if he stood there any longer he would punch Sherlock and he'd end up with a bleeding nose.

Sherlock probably stood there and smoked a few more cigarettes, and John hated it, hated himself, hated that he couldn't do anything about it because Sherlock had turned into a bloody  _wall_ and he couldn't reach him, and where did that put him? Where did it put  _them_? John was tempted to smoke a fag himself, but pushed the urge down.

Instead he laid his aching head against the cool pane of the train window, closed his eyes and breathed through his nose,  _one...two...one...two...one..._ until he was calmer. Sherlock didn't return until they were about to reach the station, smelling like a seedy pub and looking ill.

"Sherlock—" John started, but he held up a pale hand to silence him.

"Not now," he said shortly, pulling their bags out from under the seat and throwing them on top.

"Then when? At school? At home?"

Sherlock ignored him and said, "We're here," instead, gesturing outside where the train was slowly grinding to a halt. "I assume you don't want to stay here. Mycroft sent a car."

John didn't give  _two fucks_ about Mycroft and his  _bloody_ car. But he counted to three in his head, took another deep breath and picked up their bags, to follow Sherlock down into the chaotic station, thinking,  _We'll talk about it. He'll tell me why's he's upset, he'll sulk a bit and they we'll be fine. We'll be fine._

He kept repeating that to himself, over and over again in the car, a mantra-  _we'll be fine, we'll be fine,_ even as Sherlock sat next to him so still and silent that if John closed his eyes he would have forgotten he was even there.

When the car stopped in front of John's flat, Sherlock dutifully got out and helped John with his bags and deposited them in front of the door, eyes a flat, cold grey and lips pale.

"Sherlock, I—" John stood there, on the porch, underneath the awning, and took Sherlock's pale, bony wrist. Sherlock let him, looking at him with that blank look in his eyes. "I had a good time," he finally finished lamely, pressing his mouth to his cold fingertips. Sherlock let out a soft sigh, the only indication he had given so far of being aware of anything John had said, a momentary chink in his armour- quickly covered up and hidden by that strange cold mask.

He gave a stiff nod, about to walk away when John held on to his wrist and pulled him back, cupping a hand behind his neck so he could pull him down and press his lips softly to his. It wasn't even a kiss, just a brief brush of skin on skin, and Sherlock was stiff and jerky in his arms.

"Go home and call me, alright?" John said, and kissed him again on the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock didn't say anything, walking backwards and turning to stalk down to the driveway and into his car.

* * *

Sherlock didn't call.

* * *

_This is for John. This is for John._

Sherlock took to repeating this every few seconds, whenever he was having second thoughts. He stared and stared at his school tie, the skimpy red material stark against his pale palm. He had no idea how to wear a tie. John would tie it most mornings, laugh at Sherlock's ineptitude, then peck him on the lips when no one was looking.

Sherlock crushed it in his fingers and shoved it into his pocket.

Saying goodbye shouldn't be too difficult. And he was going to come back. He was coming back, of course he was. He hid his bags under his bed, movements precise and quick as he pulled the bed sheets over the edges. No time for sentiment right now. No feelings, no emotion. He couldn't think about John's soft kiss yesterday evening while he stood in front of his door, a kiss that felt too much like a goodbye kiss. He couldn't think about John's lips on him, feverish and hot, demanding that Sherlock tell him the truth, because John wasn't an idiot and of  _course_ he knew something was wrong.

Sherlock thought instead about Jim's hollow, crazy stare, cold fingertips against his bare skin and the gleam of a knife against his neck. He thought about the whispered threats and promises in his ear, thought about _Like looking into a mirror._

Mycroft was still out of town, which was perfect, by the time he'd be back, Sherlock would...

 _No._ He swallowed and steadfastly did not think of it.

He didn't look in the mirror before he left, he knew what he looked like and there wasn't much he could do about it. He'd been living on cigarettes and coffee for two days, and this one of those things, those pesky  _things_ that John disapproved of, and on any other day, John would berate him and call him several dull names and then shove toast into his hands and make him tea with heaps of sugar and then buy him mince pies. John did those things, and Sherlock never thanked him, because he'd always think,  _we have forever for dull things like that._ And John must have known, surely, John must have known that Sherlock found eating a terrible bore but it wasn't all that bad when John made him toast and tea and bought him sweets.

He didn't even notice that he'd reached school and he smoked two more cigarettes outside the gate because his fingers were shaking too much and he had no idea  _why._

"You look awful."

"Glad you noticed," Sherlock replied smoothly, turning around to blow smoke into Jim's face. He leaned against the stone wall, smiling back at him.

"I have things to loosen you up," he offered. "Although, you have them too. Or did John make you throw away all those nasty needles?"

"Fuck off," Sherlock rasped.

"A more delightful activity when done  _with_ someone, I'm sure," Jim replied, taking the cigarette from Sherlock's mouth and popping it into his own. "Chop, chop, precious. We don't have much time to spare."

"I told you I'd do it. I told you, didn't I?" Sherlock snarled. "If you rush me I won't be able to do it properly."

Jim made an annoyed noise and flicked ash off the cigarette. " _Don't_ make me wait, Sherlock, I'm not patient and you know how  _bored_ I get when you make me wait."

Sherlock licked his lips, panic flaring up his spine. "No," he said. "You promised. You gave me your word. You said you wouldn't touch him, as long as I did what you asked. I'm doing it. I'm doing what you asked." His voice cracked and Sherlock  _hated_ himself.

"You're stalling," Jim said flippantly. "Stalling isn't  _doing._ "

Sherlock exhaled through his teeth, eyes screwed shut. "Yes. Yes. I'm sorry. Yes," he choked out, and then walked inside.

* * *

John looked numbly at his watch, and at the empty chair next to him. He hadn't even come to school. That meant something, didn't it? It had to mean something. And whatever it meant, it was definitely not something good.

What was he doing in class anyway, he thought. He had no clue what was going on in class, and his eyes felt dry and gritty from lack of sleep. By rights he should have been out like a light as soon as he was home last night, but instead he lay awake, staring at the ceiling and wondering what he could have possibly done wrong for Sherlock to behave like this.

The answer came so readily, then, in the dark, coiling like smoke around his ear.  _He's bored of you. He likes Moriarty better. Moriarty's exciting, he'd keep Sherlock from getting_ bored. It was a stupid thought, Sherlock detested him, had said so himself. And yet it wasn't as if the belief was completely unfounded.

"Mr Watson!"

"Huh?" John looked up, squinting at Mr. Finnegan. He seemed to be looking at him with a great deal of displeasure. John honestly couldn't care.

"Could you repeat what I just said, Watson?" he asked. John stared at him.

"I, uh," he stared some more. Sarah in front of him turned around and looked concerned. "Yeah, no," he finally said. Then he stood up and heaved his bag over his shoulder and said, "I feel sick. I—uh—I don't—"

Finnigan looked alarmed. "Watson, you can't—"

"Sorry, sir," John mumbled and then bolted out of class. Then he kept walking down the corridor, feeling as if he was going to puke out the contents of his stomach. He actually  _did_ feel sick, and where the hell was Sherlock?

He stumbled into the boy's washroom at the end of the hall, leaning his head against the cold tile and dropping his bag on the floor, taking a deep breath—and—cigarette smoke.

He looked down immediately, and sure enough, Sherlock was leaning against one of the closed cubicle doors, cigarette held between his fingers, cheeks hollowed as he blew smoke.

"John," he rumbled. His shirtsleeves were rucked up to his elbows, jumper tied around his narrow waist, tie nowhere to be seen. John felt a pang thinking about that tie. His hair was a mess, more than it usually was, eyes lacklustre and dim. John felt a million things at that moment, looking at Sherlock, he wanted to curl his fingers into his shirt and ram him against the door and kiss the fucking  _life_ out of him—he wanted to hold him close and kiss his hair and he really wanted to punch that pretty mouth.

"Someone's going to catch you," John said instead, his voice perfectly balanced and neutral.

"Lock the door, then," Sherlock replied mildly, taking a drag.

"Where have you been all morning?" John asked, still against the wall.

Sherlock shrugged, dropped his cigarette and stubbed it.

John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, thinking  _well, it's now or never,_ with an odd and absolutely surprising sense of calm. "One last time, Sherlock. What's going on?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He dug his hands into his pockets and stared at the floor. For a long time, they stood like that, Sherlock's eyes on the floor and John's eyes on him, late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window, catching the copper and auburn tones in Sherlock's hair. Looking at it John's chest felt oddly tight.

Then Sherlock's shoulders slumped, he exhaled deeply, and said, "I can't do this anymore," to his feet in a blank, flat voice.

John felt very cold all of a sudden. He didn't say for a few long seconds. He just looked at Sherlock, head bent so that his hair looked auburn instead of black, at the way his body curved inward, slender arms in his pockets. And then he asked, "What?" like an idiot even though he was pretty sure he had heard him perfectly fine.

Sherlock looked up then and frighteningly John could not read his expression. His lips were pulled back in a snarl and his eyes flashed brightly as he spat out, "Didn't you hear me? I said I can't do this. Not anymore."

John swallowed. "What's 'this'?"

Sherlock pulled his hands out of his pockets, running them both through his hair, eyes closed as he took another shaky breath. "You. Me. Us. I—can't, John. I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Why?" was all John could ask, his voice cracking. "What the hell, Sherlock, I thought we were fine—something got fucked up in London and you won't fucking tell me, and now what—you're dumping me? How—how does this even—you can't."

Sherlock drew up immediately, eyes bright. "I  _can't_?" he repeated, spitting the word out like venom. "What do you mean— _I can't_?" he peeled himself away the door, stalking towards John until he was close enough to touch. "Since when do you decide what I can or cannot do?"

"That's not the point!" John shouted. "You—why? I don't understand."

"It shouldn't be a surprise to you," Sherlock replied, in a suddenly clinical tone. "You know I'm not suited for these kind of things. I told you so in the very beginning, you knew from the start. It was obviously only a matter of time before I—well. Before I got bored." He licked his lips. "Of you," he clarified, and he might as well have stuck a knife into John's gut.

John started laughing. He covered his eyes with his hands and started laughing—loud, hysterical laughter that was going to turn into sobs in a moment—because oh  _how right he had been._ He laughed and laughed and Sherlock stood in front of him like stone, looking faintly confused and a little bit alarmed.

"I—I don't believe this," John gasped out. "of course,  _of course,_  how could I think you'd ever stay, you're a bloody machine, aren't you?" He clutched at his chest. "Fucking robot. That's what Anderson told me, and I broke his nose, you never knew, and you didn't deduce and I—I thought, they're wrong, they don't know him like  _I_ do, and fuck me, because I don't know you at all."

Sherlock didn't say a word, and John went on and he  _hated_ himself, hated the terrible things he was saying, words that were coming bubbling out of mouth like poison.

"And I—I thought—god, what did I think? I was going to tell you that I loved you. Because I do, you know. I love you. I'm an idiot for loving you, because you're just going to stand there and say  _I don't have feelings_ or some shite, and I'll have to hold on to it, because how the hell can I not love you, Sherlock?"

"I'm glad you understand," Sherlock said softy, and everything John would see in him was gone; Sherlock was all angular lines and angles and hard, cold, marble. The softened edges that made him _him_ were sharp, and John couldn't even keep him.

John gave another harsh laugh. "Fuck you," he said. "Fuck you doing this to me." And because he didn't have it in him to hurt Sherlock physically because god, he loved him, he turned around and slammed his fist into the mirror behind him. The glass cracked and a few shards of it fell into the sink, pain flaring across his hand and blood; blood everywhere.

Sherlock yelped and moved immediately to his side, cradling his hand, " _John,_ what—fuck-water, we need—"

John ripped his bleeding hand from his grasp. "Get out," he said quietly. "Go. Just...go."

"John, you're—"

" _Leave,"_ John said, eyes trained on the scarlet dripping into the sink. This. This wasn't how relationships were supposed to end. You weren't supposed to love someone so much you slammed your fists into glass when they told you they were dumping you. You weren't supposed to let someone in like that because people like Sherlock. Beautiful, brilliant, clever people like Sherlock wanted something better than him.

Sherlock stared at him for a few more seconds, he could feel his gaze like a physical thing burning into his skin, and John couldn't bear to look at him, at those multi-coloured eyes the colour of the sea, he couldn't, god,  _why..._

By the time he looked up, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

Sherlock kept thinking about it, over and over again, when he passed his bag to Jim so he could fit it into the boot of his car. Kept thinking about how he left John bleeding in that washroom, looking like he hated Sherlock even as he said  _l love you._ Thought about the same washroom, ages ago, when he had pushed John against the wall and kissed him and John had been so scared he'd left.

Kept thinking about how he should have kissed him one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you have any questions, complaints, or you just wanna talk, I'm always open on [my tumblr.](http://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/) :) Please, feel free to contact me!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed archive warnings.

 

 

 

"Sherrrrlock. Wake up, darling."

Sherlock groaned, immediately aware of someone on top of him, entirely undesirable body parts pressing into him, and then something cold, wet and slightly slippery against the side of his neck.

"What the  _fuck,_ " he croaked, and raised a knee to push whoever it was off of him. "Ow," he muttered, raising both palms to his eyes. His head felt like it was being  _split in two._ He couldn't open his eyes, everything was too bright—

"Might as well get up, loser, we have work to do," Jim trilled from somewhere next to him.

"The f—did you drug me?" he rasped, finally removing his hands and squinting around at the room he found himself in. Cheap, inn, scratchy navy blue bed sheets, lumpy pillows, closed windows but drawn curtains—Jim sprawled next to him in jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt, munching on some sort of nutrition bar.

"Where are we?" he demanded, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper instead of the intimidating tone he had gone for. He sat up, still clutching at his head, looking around the room and trying to figure out anything important, anything to help him escape.

"We were in Bristol yesterday, look around and make a deduction," Jim drawled, getting off the bed and throwing a bar at him.

"Is this your plan, moving around from city to city, doing nothing of substance?" Sherlock snapped, sitting up, and looking down at his body suspiciously. Clothes still intact. No aching limbs, well, no more than usual—right then. Why did he drug him then?

"Shut up," Jim replied casually, looking thoughtfully out of the window. "We're going to meet some interesting people today."

"I could just walk out of this room," Sherlock told him, running a hand through his hair. It was in desperate need of a wash. Two days without a shower would do that to a person, he supposed. His throat felt scratchy. God, he felt  _horrible._ He swung his legs over the edge of the bed but decided against getting up. Getting up would make him lose his balance and then he would fall, which would,  _once again,_ give Jim an excuse to touch him, which he did alarmingly often now. He would just have to wait for the ache in his head to subside. "What did you give me, anyway?"

"You could," Jim agreed, turning around to grin at him. "But then I'll tell Seb and he'll shoot John in the head."

Sherlock swallowed, looking down and sighing. He picked up the bar and unwrapped it, stuffing into his mouth hungrily. He was  _starving. Well, John,_ he thought.  _You should see me now._ But he quickly shoved that thought out of sight because he didn't need that right now. He needed to figure out a way to escape.

"Get dressed," he said, gesturing to Sherlock's ratty jeans and t-shirt. "These people are important. Know your brother very well, actually." He drew the curtains, then, leaning against the panes.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Few would be in a position to boast of that privilege," he muttered, brushing his hands on his jeans and swallowing down the remains of the bar with difficulty. Fuck, was he coming down with something? He felt his forehead with the back of his hand. "Seriously, what did you give me? And  _why_?"

"Relax. Mild muscle relaxant. Low grade fever, slight nausea are the only side effects. Do yourself a favour and take a shower, you smell awful." Jim seemed unconcerned about the fact that he  _had_ in fact drugged him, and had it been anyone else Sherlock might have been reassured. But he wasn't, and as much as he had dabbled in recreational substances in the past, he highly doubted having an unknown substance running through your body was a good idea.

"And what, exactly, did you do to me while I was drugged?" He hissed, standing up.

Jim's lips pulled up in a crooked smile. "Oh,  _calm down,_ poppet, it was nothing untoward. Your proprietary and virtue still remain intact. I was...what do you call it?  _Experimenting._ "

"You mad fucker," Sherlock muttered under his breath, and turned around to look out of the other window. His breath frosted the glass. He could make out a half-empty parking lot, a broken down, shabby pub next to it, and nearly empty streets. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, sighing heavily. Jim was almost painfully clever, and this was becoming a problem now. Mycroft should have found him out by this time,  _what_ was taking him so long? His mobile had been dropped into a rubbish skip ages ago, but even with that, even Anthea should have been able to track the GPS. God, was everyone really  _quite_ so inefficient?

" _Darling_ ," Jim suddenly crooned in his ear, and Sherlock flinched, in spite of himself, feeling his arms sneak around his waist. "What are you thinking about? Are you missing your pet?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw.  _Don't think about him now._ "Get off," Sherlock muttered, elbowing him in the gut. Jim hissed with pain in his ear, but didn't move off, choosing to use his slight body weight to pin him against the wall.

"Now, now, don't be so uptight, love," he whispered, mouth against his neck. Sherlock stood, rigid, the window pane now almost completely frosted over, so he couldn't make out anything past the green of the fields. Jim hand ghosted over his hip, his thigh...

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock snarled,using his hand to push himself off the glass and turning around to push Jim off. " _Enough._  The next time you put your hands on me,  _I will break your nose."_

Jim whistled. "Careful," he warned, licking his lips.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, hating him so much that he wondered whether he could just stop his heart from the sheer  _will_ of it. "If I kill you right now," he said softly, stepping forward. "Strangle you, perhaps. Using my belt, maybe, or swing that lamp right against the back of your head, you'd die, and I'd do it so quietly that no one would  _know_ until it was too late—" he was almost nose to nose now, with Jim, forcing him to look up to be able to meet his eyes, trying to indimate him with the extra six inches he had on him, but Jim just looked faintly amused, his cold brown eyes surveying him unemotionally.

"Well, you'd cherish the look of surprise on my face," Jim replied flippantly, face morphing into a ridiculous expression of mock shock, eyes wide, mouth gaping open, before he said, "Because I would be surprised, Sherlock, I would," his eyes flicked down the length of his body, mouth curving into a sarcastic smirk. "And just a teensy bit...disappointed. And of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long, but of course, you're welcome to try. Go on, then. Here, take  _my_ belt—"

Sherlock stared down at him, eyes narrowed, _thinking._ Strangling someone was no easy task, it would take an immense amount of force, but using a blunt object, like that lamp, for instance, would be easier, but much messier, with a greater probability of being discovered. He  _could_ kill him, he thought, Jim was skinny and slight, and so was he, but surely he would manage it, and then...then what? If Jim wasn't bluffing, and there we people who had an eye on them right  _now,_ who would John straight through his eyes as soon as Jim's corpse hit the floor? Or Irene? Or Mycroft? No. He couldn't take that risk, not  _right now,_ not before calculating first, and Jim knew that.

He stepped back then, and Jim smirked. "Thought so," he said.

Sherlock was about to spit something at him, when the bell rang.

"Ah," Jim smiled. "Visitors." He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the short fringe back, eyes alight wth excitement. "Too bad you still look like you rolled out of a skip, but, ah well. Can't have everything." He moved towards the door to open it.

"You—who are they?" Sherlock asked, but Jim didn't respond, merely threw him a smirk over his shoulder and opened the door.

"Took you long enough," someone said, and a man walked in—early forties, greying hair, divorced, two children, chain smoker, closet homosexual,  _clearly—_ followed by another, younger by a few years, pathological gambler—both dressed in functional, albeit worn clothing.  _Think,_ he thought fiercely.  _Figure out something_ _ **important.**_

"This is Mycroft's baby brother, then?" the older one said, closing the door behind him and eyes narrowing in on Sherlock. His lips were turned up in a mocking smile, eyes cold, pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans.  _Ah. Mycroft._

"If you're going to ask me about any secret government projects, I'm afraid you'll have to be disappointed," Sherlock drawled. "Because I don't know anything."

The older man raised his eyebrows, smile disappearing. "We'll have to get him to be a little more polite, now, won't we?" he said arily.

"I  _did_ tell you he was clever," Jim muttered.

"Oh did you? How thoughtful of you—" Sherlock started to say, but the younger one pulled out a pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Sherlock.  _Click._ Safety off.

"There, now." The grey-haired one said. "Let's get comfortable, then. Jim, lock the door."

"Your wife left you," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse.  _Why was he talking?_ "It's either because of your alcoholism, or your homosexuality—maybe both. Obviously both. She caught you cheating, I think. You took it out on your children, or used to, anyway, hmm, mainly your son, I presume— before they stopped associating themselves with you, to be honest—"

Suddenly there was a quick movement from the older man, and a flaring pain against his cheek. Sherlock stumbled and fell, momentarily blinded by the viscuous attack. He was being lifted up then, cruel fingers tangled in his hair. It made his eyes water— _hit a spore spot then,_ he thought. It was probable that the easiest way to gather information about the both of them would be to provoke them. He was pushed bodily against the desk on the other side of the room, the man's heavier body pressing against his own, pulling back his head to expose his throat. His accomplice had his gun trained on him still, unpertubed by the sudden violence, grey eyes cold and unconcerned.  _That's it,_ he realised—  _ex...ex...military? No...ex...secret service..._

"You want to know what else I did to my son, you little freak?" he hissed in his ear, grinding his hips against him, and Sherlock felt his stomach roll. He screwed his eyes shut, gripping the table hard.  _Bad. This is very bad._

"Not really a master of subtlety, are you," he spit out.

"You think you're so fucking clever, just like that bloody brother of yours, but I have his little baby brother now, don't I? He won't be so fucking cold when I tell him what I could do to you—"

"You really should do what you came for," Jim drawled, breaking his stream of threats. "Fucking him wasn't apart of the agreement."

He pushed off of him then, and Sherlock had to resist the temptation to curl up into a ball, right there on the floor. Instead he swallowed down the bile rising up his throat and tried to think how the hell he was going to get out of this.  _Mycroft, get your bloody arse over here,_ he thought.

"What deal?" he asked, non chalantly.

"The one we  _made,_ Sherlock," Jim replied, inspecting his finger nails. "Actually, it's quite simple—these gentlemen are going to ask you a few questions, which you will answer, and if you won't, well," he shrugged. "I  _did_ say I was saving killing you off for something special."

"A  _kidnap_?" Sherlock rasped disbelievingly. "Is that what this is?"

Jim shrugged. "Of sorts."

"Enough chit chat," the man with the gun finally spoke. "Start talking or I'll start shooting."

* * *

 

"I don't  _know,"_ he shouted. "I. Don't. Know. Call my brother. Go  _ahead._ Tell him you have me. That's what you want, isn't it? Do it."

Sherlock was tired. He was  _exhausted._ He left side of his face was aflame, he could  _feel_ the bruises blossoming on his skin, and he was too frightened to look in the mirror. Not that he'd be able to move, anyway—he was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His wrists were raw and chafed from trying to get out of the room. He might have even been able to—but he wasn't sure he would be able to disarm the man with the gun. Essentially everyone in this room was armed, except him. Trying to escape would be madness.

"This is ridiculous," he snarled, lashing out an arm and striking Sherlock across the face. That hurt. "Either he really doesn't know or he's taking the piss. Either way, I have to call the boss and tell him. And we have to tell his brother."

"Yes, excellent idea," Sherlock muttered, flicking out a tongue to lick off the blood. "About time. Tell him where I am. He can come collect me."

"Quiet," the one with the gun snapped. "Sir, we have to leave now."

"Yeah, I know," the other one replied. "You," he addressed Jim. "he better be tied up when we come back. Remember our deal, don't you?"

"Crystal clear," Jim said, still leaning casually against the wardrobe. "Go on. He's safe with me."

 _Damn it,_ Sherlock thought.  _He's not calling Mycroft yet. He would be able to trace my call...damn it damn it damn it._ He looked up at them leaving.  _Boss._ Who was their boss? And why would they leave him here, and why would they keep him at a dingy inn where anyone could come in? None of it made any sense.

As soon as they left, Jim was untying his bindings. "You're bleeding," he mused, dropping the cords to the floor. Sherlock gasped as the blood flowed back, and brought them in front of him to rub some life back into them. God, John would throw a fit if he saw them. He allowed himself to think of him for a moment before he stifled that thought out of his head.

"Yes," he agreed, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. Jim was on his knees, untying the ropes around his ankles.

"Like me on my knees, do you?" Jim quipped.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of your innuendo?" he sneered. Jim looked up at him and smiled crookedly.

"Never," he replied, standing up. "Can you walk?"

Sherlock tried twirled his ankle around. He was sore, but not immobile. "I'll manage," he croaked.

"Good," Jim bent down on the other side of the bed and threw him his back. Sherlock caught it with a surprise  _unph._

"We're leaving. Fast. Up. Wipe your face, you look like a disaster. Get that blood off."

"W-what? I thought—"

"Later. Now.  _Up."_

He disappeared into the loo for a minute before emerging and walking towards him with a wet towel. "Here, allow me to—" and then he raised his hand and pressed it to his nose.

"Wait—" Sherlock tried to stop him, batting at him weakly. But the chloroform was already taking effect. "What—"

Darkness.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up tied to a chair again.

This was getting tiresome.

He blinked a few times before he could open his eyes. They felt dry and gritty, as if he hadn't slept in a week. His mouth was dry, and he felt thirsty. Wherever he was, it was dark, he couldn't make out much except—

_Drip drip drip wate exhaust smoke fuck fuck fuck why are we in London again_

He was wide awake now. The ropes were digging into his wrists and he was too afraid to move them at all because they would probably start bleeding.

"He's awake," someone said. The voice was gruff, low, cockney British. He squinted through the darkness and in the dim he could make it out— _Seb._ Jim's accomplice.

"Where's John?" he croaked.

Seb cocked his head at him. Then raised a gun at his head. "Shut up."

"They're going to kill you, darling," Jim suddenly said from his right. Sherlock turned around. Jim wiggled his fingers at him. "I don't want them to kill you."

"I don't...understand." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Thought you were clever," Jim said underneath his breath. "They're going to kill you, which is a pity, so I thought, you know, you've outlived your use. It was fun playing with you, but there are bigger better things out there and now you're in my  _way._ "

He was in front of him now, holding up his mobile. "So. Time to be obvious. You're going to die, and I'm not going to make it pretty."

Sherlock wasn't sure if it was possible at that moment to be any more afraid that he had been for the past few days. He didn't want to die. But Jim seemed to be quite determined. But if Sebastian was here, then where—

"Sherlock?  _Sherlock?_ " The sound of footsteps. Very  _familiar_ footsteps.

Ice coat his stomach. He looked up at Jim, who was looking down at him with a cruel smirk on his face.

"You—" Sherlock whispered, horror seeping through his gut."You called  _John?_ "

His smirk grew wider.

"Time to play," he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit me at [my tumblr](http://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk! :)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbeta'ed, sorry for any mistakes! Please, please tell me if you find any glaring mistakes or typos.   
> I've updated two chapters because the original was too long, so please enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of me updating two chapters lol.  
> Again, sorry for this unpolished chapter!

The first day he came back home and went straight into his room. He stood in the middle of it, hands covering his face, trying to remember how to breathe.

_Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale._ It didn’t help that the voice inside his head instructing him had a deep, rich baritone. John gave up, and then violently kicked his chair, screaming. He didn’t know how long he spent systematically destroying his room, but at the end of it, exhaustion seeped into his bones and he sunk to the foot of his bed, wishing he could fall asleep and never have to wake up. He didn’t want to wake up to a world where Sherlock Holmes didn’t look at him like he was supposed to.

When he managed to find his phone he stared at it, holding it in shaking hands until he tried calling Sherlock’s number.

_I’ll beg,_ he thought wildly. _I’ll beg, I don’t care. He can’t leave me, not like this, Jesus. Not like this. In which universe is this fair?_

But he didn’t pick up. Obviously. John kept trying until his fingers ached and his phone started burning up against his ear. Then he threw it against the wall with a curse where the screen splintered before it clattered to the floor, useless and broken.

Harry tried knocking on his door once or twice, timidly asking him what was wrong, but John ignored her. Choosing to lean his head back against the bed and stare at the ceiling until his head hurt and his muscles were stiff.

Sometime around midnight his mum tried asking him to open the door, but by that time John’s aching body was already in bed, and he didn’t even have any energy to tell her to go away.

He felt pathetic, pining after him like that. It would have far more useful if he could his heart out and fling it out the window.

It didn’t stop him from trying to piece his phone back together so that he could try again. When he finally managed to get it to work, Sherlock’s phone was switched off.

He put the phone back on the nightstand carefully before turning over, hugging the pillow close to his chest, trying and failing to prevent the sobs from racking his body. John’s father had been strict; a good father, and John had loved him, or so his mother told him; good, but conservative, and _boys don’t cry_ had been drilled into his head ever since he could remember, but right now, John didn’t care. His pillow was wet by the time he was too tired to cry anymore and he fell asleep, exhausted and aching, and dreamt of Sherlock’s soft lips against his brow and his arm around his waist; dreamt of Sherlock thrusting a knife into his chest and twisting while he laughed.

***

“John,” his mother asked carefully the next morning. John turned over and closed his eyes again.

“John, I know you’re awake. You need to go to school.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” he replied. His voice sounded oddly blank.

“If you’re feeling ill, I can call a doctor, dear.” She sounded worried. John wanted to comfort her, he really did. But he was afraid that talking would eventually lead to talking about _Sherlock_ , and he didn’t think he was ready for that yet.

“I’m fine,” he decided to say after a few seconds. “I just—I just need some time alone.” It sounded ridiculous to his own ears. He didn’t particularly care.

“All-alright, dear,” she paused. “I’m leaving for work, there’s food in the fridge, eat it when you’re hungry, alright? And call me if you feel sick.”

“Okay.”

***

He came out some time in the afternoon when he was sure the house would be empty. Gnawed on an apple while he stood in front of the door, finger tips brushing cold metal.

_If I could see him,_ he thought, _I can tell him how ridiculous he’s being._

He went back upstairs.

***

Mycroft didn’t call until the next afternoon, and when he did, John thought it was Sherlock. He nearly stumbled getting to the phone. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but he still put it to his ear. “Hello?” he asked breathlessly.

“Good afternoon, John. Is my brother with you?” he sounded slightly bored, as usual, as if he had a dozen other far more important things to do. Which, John considered in hindsight, he probably did.

“Mycroft.” His voice rushed out in a loud breath of disappointment.

“Yes, it’s me, how very tragic,” Mycroft agreed. “Now could you please put my brother on the line, I have to talk to him. I’m calling from London, do hurry up.”

John had a great urge to throw the phone against the wall again.

“Your brother isn’t with me,” John informed him instead, sighing, pressing the heel of his hand into his eyes.

“John, I don’t have time for games. Tell him to stop acting like a child and give him the phone.”

“I told you, he isn’t with me. Are you deaf?”

Pause. “Well then, where is he?”

“How would I know?” John didn’t particularly like where this conversation was headed, and in fact, he didn’t want to have a conversation with Mycroft at all. Mycroft “if-you-hurt-my-baby-brother-dreadful-things-will-happen-to-you Holmes. And the thing was, that if Mycroft chose to blame him, John would probably agree. _He_ should have been able to hold on to him.

“Who else would?” Mycroft challenged mildly, and John was inclined to agree with that-except he didn’t, did, he.

“Jesus fuck, Mycroft, how can you be so dense,” He finally snapped. He knew he was being unfair. Far ruder than this conversation warranted and Mycroft must have been very patient to allow John to speak to him like that. “Your brother and I broke up.” A sharp edge of pain shot down his chest. He’d said it. Saying the words like that suddenly made it far too real.

Silence.

“I see,” when he finally spoke, those two, tiny words had more coldness in them than every sentence that Sherlock had ever uttered in his life. Mycroft’s voice was ice.

“So I don’t know where he is, but he’s probably home.”

“I wouldn’t be calling if you if my brother was home, now would I, John?” John flinched. Obviously Mycroft’s next step was patronizing him. He didn’t really care at the moment, because he suddenly realised what Mycroft was trying to tell him.

“Are you telling me that you can’t find him?” John could hear the sharp hint of panic in his own voice. “You have surveillance on him all the time, check your CCTV.”

Mycroft ignored that statement. “Where did he go after this incident?”

John wanted to laugh at Mycroft’s choice of words except he was too busy worrying about where Sherlock was. “I don’t know. He just left. I didn’t follow him. I thought he’d gone home, or wandered around like he usually does.”

“But that has not happened,” Mycroft told him impatiently. “He didn’t come home last night.”

John thought he was likely to pass out. His hand flailed around a bit for support before he leaned against the nearest bit of wall. “But he..he does things like this all the time,” he said weakly. “He’s never...”

“I have been careless,” Mycroft confessed to him. “I was under the impression that you were looking after him. I thought that Sherlock would be smart enough to keep you, but unfortunately he has displayed an alarming amount of idiocy and now he’s run off my radar.” Mycroft sounded extremely displeased. John didn’t blame him.

“Well you have to come home,” John told him. “You have to do something. He could be anywhere.”

“Oh, I’ll find him,” Mycroft promised him. “And John? Stay put.”

“What the hell does that mean?” John demanded.

“It means that you are not to go _looking for him on your own,_ ” Mycroft explained. “Please.”

John paused. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Mycroft request him like that. “I can’t just stay at home and _wait._ He could be somewhere dangerous.”

“If I know my brother at all, I am _sure_ he’s somewhere dangerous. But you have to _stay put._ Stay at home, where you will be safe, John. We’ll find him, but I can’t have you putting yourself in danger as well.”

“He’s—he’s my best friend, I can’t—“

“If something happened to you, do you think, when we bring him back, he will forgive me for letting that happen to you? I’m not your father John, but you are something to my brother, which means you are something to me. I will not have you running off alone to find him when there are better, safer ways.”

“Hurry up,” was all John said before he disconnected the call.

 

***

He didn’t know how to contact Lestrade to ask him, so he ended up going to school instead. It was late in the afternoon by the time he got there; the sky a deep, golden orange. Most of the students had left, which was good, because he was conspicuous in his lack of uniform. It might have been smarter to wear it.

The office was open till four, but John knew how to pick the lock. The difficult part was figuring out which computer would have what he needed. It took him fifteen minutes to figure it out, and another five to remember which password Sherlock had used the last time they had broken in.

The password was _password._ Of course. He could remember Sherlock scoffing, slender fingers travelling lightning fast over the keyboard.

Jim’s address was easy enough to find, but by the time he got there, his house was locked and boarded up; the porch devoid of plants, the gate into their garden wrapped around with a stiff, heavy chain. There was a new “FOR SALE” sign.

John wanted to scream.

***

Mycroft was home by that evening. John knew this because he had been creeping around Sherlock’s home, waiting for him to. He couldn’t bear going inside alone, without Sherlock. The house would be too empty, too bare, too quiet. He’d probably end up smashing a vase against the wall just for some noise.

His phone buzzed. “Yeah,” he said.

“Don’t hover around on the road this time of night. Come inside.”

“I’m not hovering.”

Mycroft sighed. “Come inside, John.”

***

“His mobile’s been switched off, why on would he switch it off?” Lestrade shouted. His hair was standing up at the back, and the tie he usually wore had been slipped off and thrown away a long time ago.

“What about Moriarty?” John asked.

Mycroft turned to him over the sleek computer had been looking at. “They were together until at least seventy five kilometres from here,” he replied. “Davids, what was the exact location?”

John didn’t hear Mycroft’s blank faced minion reply. His insides were curling up inside. It didn’t make sense. Sherlock wouldn’t do this to him. He wouldn’t do this to himself, would he? John knew him better than anyone else and the one thing he was sure of was that if Sherlock didn’t want to be found, he knew how to vanish. Mycroft knew that too.

The doubt was painful, slicing low and deep into him. Then he told himself that he was being ridiculous and that the only thing that mattered right now was finding Sherlock. They didn’t have time for him to be childish. This wasn’t about _jealousy._

“John,” Mycroft said loudly, snapping him back. John looked at him. His grey eyes were tired, dark circles forming underneath. The line of his shoulders was slumped. “You need to tell us everything you know about James Moriarty. Our records can only tell us so much.”

John tapped his fingers against the table Lestrade was sitting at. “Well, he’s obsessed with Sherlock,” he began.

***

Frustration. They were all frustrated. And tired. John stayed over the first night, and the second, sleeping on the sofa in the living room. Sherlock’s mother didn’t ask him to take the guest room, not that he expected her to.

“John will stay here tonight,” Mycroft had said.

She looked at John, the eyes that were so much like Sherlock fixed on him with a staggering amount of dislike. “Will he now,” she had said coldly, and turned around to walk away. John would always think she was selfish for the way she treated Sherlock; but even she was worried about him, and John was fine with that; Sherlock deserved to be worried about. His own mother kept calling him every hour, demanding how closer they were to finding him. John kept quiet every time.

Mycroft was the one who brought him blankets and pillows, dumping them on the sofa in the living room. They stood awkwardly around each other until Mycroft briefly touched his shoulder and said, “I know this is asking too much, but sleep well, John.” John wanted to tell him that he was right and it was incredible that he thought he would be able to sleep at all, but he just nodded at Mycroft, unable to respond to his tight smile.

The sofa was stiff and the pillows too soft, and John felt uncomfortable under the obviously expensive blankets. He laid awake until he couldn’t bear it anymore and made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom.

It was exactly as he had left it; the bed crumpled, blanket half hanging over the floor; the window open, the room freezing cold as his dark blue curtains fluttered. John sunk into the bed and buried his face in Sherlock’s pillow; expensive shampoo, soap and Sherlock’s poncy colongue; John could have tasted it with his tongue. He fisted his hands into the bed sheet and breathed and breathed; wrapping himself in Sherlock’s blanket until he was surrounded by him.

_Come back,_ he thought. _I love you, come back._

_***_

The third day was when he threw a paperweight at Mycroft, yelling, “You’re supposed to be the British government, _find him!_ ” Mycroft dodged the paperweight and had to hold up his hand to stop one of his minions from manhandling John into submission.

“I am trying, John,” he said. He didn’t sound like himself at all. His voice shook slightly before he swallowed and said again, “He’s my brother. I will find him.”

John could feel himself trembling so he didn’t say anything in response to that; he left Mycroft’s office and wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock’s housekeeper wasn’t in there like she usually was so it was quiet while he hunted for the jar that his ridiculously expensive tea bags were kept in. He was waiting for it to soak when he heard someone come into the kitchen.

“Sherlock is more partial to Darjeeling,” Mr Holmes said.

John turned around, the mug warm in his hand. “I’ve noticed.”

He was leaning against the kitchen table, arms crossed over his chest. John had never spoken to his father before, not alone, at least. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket like he usually did, and the sleeves of his white shirt were folded up to his elbows. His eyes were an unsettling shade of pale green; one of the many colours that made up Sherlock’s multi coloured gaze. He could see Sherlock in the arch of his eyebrows and the long, Patrician nose; but everything else; from the way his gaze pierced John to the way he held himself, was alarmingly _Mycroft._ John felt an unhealthy amount of dislike towards him.

“You can tell me, John,” he said.

John leaned a hip against the sink and took a sip of his tea. “Tell you what?”

The smile he gave in reply was a humourless, condescending thing. “Where my son is.”

John stared at him. “I don’t know where he is. If I knew where he was, we wouldn’t be looking for him,” he replied logically. Sherlock would have been proud.

The smile grew more strained.

“He spends all his time with you, you must know, John,” he insisted.

John set the mug down. “He spends his time with me because I’m his friend.”

“ _Friend_ ,” Mr. Holmes snorted. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Look, if you’re going to give me the same _My son has no friends_ shite like your wife, I’m really not interested.” He grabbed his mug and turned around to leave the kitchen, half considering throwing the scalding tea in his face.

“No, you’re interested in fucking my son,” he replied easily.

When John turned around to look at him, he was smiling unpleasantly.

“You’re not using that against me,” John told him, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

“Why?” he raised an eyebrow. “Is it unrequited? That must hurt. I’m not surprised, though. After all, _my_ son is no fag.” He cocked his head at John, smile still in place. His eyes, John decided, were not like Sherlock’s at all.

John wanted to punch him, he really did, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Mr. Holmes was goading him, luring him into doing something drastic, and John refused to be reeled in by it.

“You’re a selfish, arrogant prat,” he told him. “Your son is missing and all you can think about is he who he chooses to be with. No wonder he hates the both of you.”

The smile slipped. “Don’t you judge the way we’ve raised our sons,” he said, moving away from the table and towards John. “What do you understand? You’re an ordinary, _middle class_ young boy, and it pains me to see him mix with the likes of you.”

“Fuck you,” John hissed, and the next thing he knew there were knuckles ramming into his fist, and he was stumbling, hand reaching out blindly for support so he wouldn’t fall to the floor. There was a metallic tinge in his mouth. The mug fell, broken pieces of glass and tea mixing messily on the floor. The resounding crash was probably why Mycroft was currently standing at the doorway, surveying the both of them; John, leaning against the sink with his hand on his jaw, and Sherlock’s father, panting hard, glaring at John, massaging the top of his hand.

Mycroft looked at John once, before looking at his father. “He’s sixteen and a _child,_ father,” he said, before walking inside and grabbing John’s bicep to drag him out of the kitchen.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, shortly.

“No,” John replied stubbornly.

“My father,” Mycroft began, still dragging John across the living room. “Is not a very nice person.”

“Really? Can’t say I’ve noticed,” John rejoined sarcastically.

Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft understood sarcasm extremely well, he only chose to ignore it.

“I am sorry, John,” he said, by the time they were outside. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and took out a handkerchief, handing it to him. “I should have known that would happen.”

John wiped the blood off his lip. “I’ll come back later,” he said.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” Mycroft assured him mildly. “But try not to get provoked by our father. Or our mother, for that matter.”

John snorted. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I gathered.”

“I’ll—I’ll leave you then. Perhaps you could use some fresh air.”

John made a non committal noise. Mycroft left.

Five minutes later, his mobile rang. His mouth was still stinging by the time he managed to get it out.

“Hello?” he said, picking it up.

“Alright, Johnny boy, listen very carefully,” the voice was familiar, sending a trickle of icy cold fear down John’s spine. “You’re going to be very quiet and do exactly as I say or I’m going to shoot your fucktoy right in his pretty head and send you the pictures. Say yes if you understand.”

“Yes,” John replied, trying to step back slowly towards the house.

“Oh no,” Jim admonished him. “Don’t try to be _that_ clever. Just walk out. Easy does it, John. Say yes, now.”

“Y-yes.”

“Oh, boy aren’t you clever, then? We’re going to have so much fun, John, you’ll see. Oh, I’m so excited I can barely contain myself!”

 

* * *

 


	26. Chapter 26

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock considered shouting, yelling at John to tell him to get out of here while he still could, but behind him, cool metal slid down the side of his face to rest lightly against his chin. Behind him, Moran (assuming that was his real name) bit out in a harsh whisper, "Mouth shut."

Jim shot him a knowing smile, looking almost ghost like in the dim light of the garage. Sherlock sat still, closing his eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh as the footsteps drew closer, John's familiar gait filling the silence of the room, like knives cutting through smoke.

It didn't take John long to come in, and despite everything, despite the rope digging mercilessly into his skin, the hollow feeling of hopelessness in his gut, Sherlock felt, for one, wonderful, _terrible,_ blinding moment, everything disappear. John walked into the car park and his eyes immediately met Sherlock's, face ashen and eyes wide with fear, and fury.

"Get out of here," he said weakly, even though he knew John's chance for leaving unharmed was long gone. The gun stayed trained on him, though, and Moran made no attempt to threaten John with it, even when John ran towards him, dropping to his knees, hands framing the sides of his face; warm, rough, _grounding, real._ The urge to touch him was overwhelming.

"Oh, Christ," he whispered. "You, fuck, I thought—"

"John," Sherlock relplied brokenly, as John ran shaking fingers through his hair, down his stomach, his thighs, his knees. "John, why are you _here."_

"It doesn't matter," John said quietly, eyes searching his face. "You're hurt," he rubbed his thumb over his cheekbone, sweeping across the bruise there. Sherlock could barely remember telling John that he was bored of him; the way John was looking at him right now, eyes burning into his skin, hands shaking even as they clutched at his knees—Sherlock wanted him _gone,_ as far as possible from this extremely dangerous situation, wanted him safe and sound in his home, and he didn't _care_ if Jim would kill him as the price, he just wanted John _safe._

"You're an idiot," he said, voice shaky. "You shouldn't have come."

John shot him a crooked smile. "You must be rubbing off me, I'm doing the _opposite_ of what I should do."

Sherlock wanted to _throttle_ him.

"Now, while this _all_ very touching, there _is_ a point to this evening." Jim interrupted them, clapping his hands twice.

John immediately shot up, turning around and walking up to Jim, and Sherlock watched in horror as he curled his fingers in his t-shirt, slamming him against the wall. Moran tensed beside him, but made no move to raise his gun, presumably because Jim hadn't ordered him to.

"You sick bastard," John spat. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

"Because I can?" Jim suggested, spreading his arms. "Because I want to see Sherlock in pain? Because it's funny? Because I have bigger, better plans and now Sherlock is in my way?"

"Kill us? That's what you want to do?" John asked him in disgust.

"More or less," Jim answered. "Now let go of me or Seb is going to do mean things to you while I make Sherlock watch. Or better yet, the other way around."

Sherlock began to think very fast. There was one, possible thread of hope that he desperately clung on to; John's mobile; he was hoping that whoever had brought John here hadn't taken it from him—if Mycroft was clever enough to track it, he might be able to make it in time; otherwise, well. Otherwise they would probably end up in dead in the next thirty minutes, more if Jim decided to draw it out.

He didn't particularly care about dying himself; of course, the survival instinct _was_ the strongest one that human beings were capable of, but he had realised very quickly that the chances of both of them getting out of this alive were zero. So, the choice was simple; him, or John? Sherlock still had his brain, he was still awfully, frightfully clever, so the smart thing was to use his remaining energies into saving _John._ Who, admittedly was going to be stupid and try to save _Sherlock._ That would have to be prevented.

The first thing he had to do was get out of these damn ropes—which, although difficult, was not impossible.

Almost there.

John had let Jim go, and he was glaring at him with a look of utmost loathing on his face. Sherlock had never seen John look like that at Jim, before; at anyone, before. He was under no illusion that had John had the chance, he would have ripped Jim to pieces. The thought made something warm and blossom in his chest; the thought that John Watson would kill for him.

"His brother is going to find you," John said, his voice deathly quiet. "You can't seriously think that you'll be able to get away with this. You're just a kid with a gun."

Jim shrugged. "That's the mistake Sherlock made, you know. Underestimating me. He'd tell you he never makes mistakes, but _I_ brought him to his knees, didn't I?" Jim's eyes lit up with the same maniacal brightness, as he clasped his hands together in delight. "He's rather transparent, you know, John. He'd do _anything_ for you. I could tell him to shoot himself right now and he'd do it."

"I'm going to kill you," John said softly.

"Oh you could _try,_ darling, I'm sure. Mmm, I can see why he keeps you around. But it's so _difficult_ keeping him entertained, isn't it? Much better to just tie him up and leave him to rot. To be honest, I would have _loved_ to watch that happen. For what it's worth, he _does_ look rather fetching in those ropes. Do you like him tied up too, John?" Jim cocked his head and smiled at John.

"What the fuck do you want," John snarled.

"We've _been_ through this John. This is getting tiring. _Don't_ be ridiculous, now," he suddenly said as John took a step closer to him. "Seb isn't the only one here with a gun."

"You're lying."

"Mmm, you're cute, I'll give you that," Jim exhaled loudly. "But enough chit chat, I'm getting bored." And with that, he reached into his pocket and extracted a knife. Sherlock recognized the blade immediately; the one he had carried when he had both of them kidnapped in London earlier; the sight of it sent a shiver down his spine, making fear pool deep in his gut.

"Let me see your hand, John," Jim crooned.

John didn't make any move, so Jim reached forward and yanked his wrist towards him, placing the blade gently on his hand.

The ropes. The ropes were almost free. Sherlock could blood trickling down his hand, his fingers, drying in uncomfortable patches on his palms and between his fingers. His wrists were in agony. But; he had an idea. He had an idea which was quite possible physically impossible and he had only one try—he had to get it perfect.

"If you stab me with that, you know what's going to happen, darling, so don't even think about it. But you're going to do exactly as I tell you. I want you to cut him." Jim cocked his head to the side, smiling.

"Cut—wh-"John blinked at him, confused, face draining of colour.

"Oh, you know, nick him. Give him a few cuts. I want to watch you make him bleed."

Tedious, really. Sherlock thought Jim had more taste. Although, it was fine that John would have to be close enough to perform that act. Close to him meant further away from Jim, even if it meant closer to Moran. Who had a gun. Maybe it wasn't a good idea after all. Sherlock hated Jim particularly at that moment; knife being carved into his skin, he could take. The look on John's face while he was forced to hurt him, however, was a different matter entirely.

The game had stopped being interesting the moment John started to be in danger.

Which meant, in retrospect, the game had lost all interest ages ago.

Sherlock watched as John's knuckles turned white as he clutched the rough handle of the knife; the blade was incredibly sharp. It would hurt.

"No," John replied, voice shaking. "You sick, insane fucker. No."

"Do it or Seb will, and I promise you, Johnny boy, that's going to hurt a lot more."

"John," Sherlock finally said, voice cracking in spite of himself. "John, do it."

John turned around to look at him, his face pale. "Sherlock, I—I can't," he said desperately.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock huffed. "Didn't you hear him? It's either you or this oaf behind me. You know I have a high tolerance for pain. Do it."

"It's going to hurt," John told him, holding up the knife, voice unsteady. He was walking towards him. "He wants me to hurt you."

Sherlock looked at him, then. Really looked at him. Eyes wide as he stared into John's eyes and tried to tell him, _I'm out of these ropes, cut me, do whatever he tells you to, I need you to distract them. Come on, John, don't be a child._

"I've hurt you more," he said instead. John smiled shakily at that. Pressed the knife against his bicep.

"He'll be here soon, I promise. Hang on," he whispered. "Sherlock, I'm, I'm so sorry—"

"No, I am," Sherlock rejoined steadily, and John looked confused for a moment, before Sherlock did several things at once.

Because, in the end; whether he died or not, the only thing that was important was getting John out of here, safely. And there really was just one option.

* * *

 

John only had a second to blink confusedly at Sherlock's apology before he saw him lift both legs in the air and kick him, hard, in the chest. The movement sent him sprawling on his backside, knife falling out of his hand and sliding away. There was a muffled _thump,_ a groan of pain, and John looked up just to see Sherlock's fingers in Moran's hair as he bodily slammed the side of his head into the stone pillar.

The gun fell, and John stood up, and everything seemed to move slowly, too slowly;

He couldn't get up fast enough, Sherlock had kicked it, kicked it too far-it went skidding—he saw Jim run for it, and he slid across it before John could make it in time. He saw, for a second, the blinding panic in Sherlock's eyes, even as Moran tried to grab him from where he was on the floor.

He could only watch in horror as Jim's pale, spindly fingers curled around it, picking up the gun to aim it at him, and—

* * *

 

As soon as his bonds were free and John had been kicked out of the way, he moved quickly; slamming Moran's head against the pillar, gun falling, skidding—

He looked up only in time to see

Jim

_Fuck_

The gun, in his hand, pointed at—

_John_

_No._

It was no competition, really, in the end.

None at all.

There was him, kicking Moran in the face—running, hands reaching out, pushing John- _you idiot-_ and a sudden, hot, blinding pain somewhere in his stomach, his legs giving out, falling, _falling-_

Back against John, warm, rough _—_

"Sherlock, _fuck!"_

Sherlock couldn't breathe; the pain seemed to be _everywhere;_ he could feel the wetness spread, it kept on spreading, all he could choke out was a broken rasp of, " _John—"_ before he felt John's arm close around his waist as they both fell down, he could feel tremors shaking his body as the pain seemed to intensify—his hand reached out to grip whatever was closest, in this case, John's hand; he could feel it, cold in his grasp; he squeezed.

"Oh, oh god, Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me, fuck, fuck," he heard John say, above him; the top of his head pillowed against John's stomach, laying on his thigh, one of John's hands held in his own in a death grip, the other cradling his face. Sherlock looked up at him, the edges of his vision tinged dark; _pain, pain, oh god, bullet, he needed to—_ John's eyes wide, fearful— _John shouldn't look like that, no, John, I can't bear it when you're unhappy, I'm fine, I'm fine, it's just a flesh wound—_ but nothing came out of his mouth; only broken gasps.

"Shit, we have to—Sherlock, stay with me," John ordered, and he yanked his hand out of Sherlock's grip, and the next moment something warm and lumpy was being pressed into his side. _Jumper._ "Okay," John was saying shakily. "Just, put your hand here, yes, keep pressure on it. Sherlock, can you hear me? Put pressure on that wound," John took his hand and pressed it down on top of the material, and Sherlock whimpered, it felt like his torso was being split open.

"Sherlock, you're _okay,_ you're okay—" John looked up, cursed, and suddenly bent low over Sherlock, covering his body with his own, gathering him closer—a shot rang out—

Somewhere behind him, or all around him—he couldn't make sense of anything past the blinding pain in his abdomen, and John's hand on top of his, pressing down on the wound— police sirens? Police sirens, which meant—

A second shot rang out. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut.

Footsteps. Voices. Sherlock reached up to claw at John's shirt. _I think I'm going to die,_ he thought. _That's what this feels like._

"I'm here, I'm here," John whispered, fingers digging into his hair. His voice was rough, hoarse. He sounded ill. "Sherlock, they're here, it's alright, look at me, love, come on, _don't close your eyes!"_

Someone shouting behind him. Clang of metal on concrete. Jim dropped his gun? "Put your hands in the air! Yeah, you!" Sherlock kept looking up at John, afraid to look anywhere else.

"Mycroft!" John was looking up, shouting. "Mycroft, we need—" his voice was cracking. "Mycroft we need an ambulance! Get a fucking ambulance!"

"John," he finally managed to choke out. His legs were trembling. God, he felt tired. So tired. "John, I—" tugged him closer until he could whisper in John's ear. Warmth. Comfort. Safety. _John._

"It's okay," John said, and he felt warm lips brush over his forehead. "Hang on babe, please, please, you _idiot,_ why would you do that, _why—"_

"Human error," he rasped. "John, I—" _listen to me—there's something I have to say—_

"No," John's hand over his mouth. The line of his mouth stiff, determined. "Not like this, I'll kill you if you say it like this," he ran his hand up over his face, fingers trembling as the traced his skin. "I love you too, I love you, now just concentrate on not dying, okay?"

_You don't understand,_ he wanted to say. _Let me tell you._

But he couldn't. Someone fell to their knees beside Sherlock. Two face swimming in front of his vision. He squinted. _Mycroft._ A large, warm hand pressing over his forehead. Grey eyes.

"Here! Gregory, get them here!"

More footsteps. Soft, clinical voices. Suddenly his body wasn't on the floor anymore, and the next moment something stiff and cold under his back. _Stretcher._ John—where was John? "John—" he called out, his voice barely audible. And there he was—warm fingers clasped around his hand. He was being moved forward. John's face kept swimming in and out of sight. Ridiculous. Unacceptable. He wanted to sleep, if only—

"John, I—" he managed hoarsely, before darkness closed in.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What have I written? I have literally dumped all my post-TAB feelings on this chapter. I regret nothing.  
> We have one more chapter to go, folks!   
> And a very happy new year. Have a good one. Show me some love and drop a review :)

John knew the practicality of it, the theory. He knew that all gun shot wounds were not fatal, and that Sherlock would, he absolutely _would_ wake up soon.

It was difficult to convince himself of this when Sherlock was lying so still in his hospital bed, eyes closed as if he were just _sleeping._ John wasn't sure Sherlock had ever been so still in his life; John's idea of Sherlock was a constant state of activity, the Sherlock he knew was _loud,_ a whirlwind of perpetual motion. This quiet, motionless Sherlock scared him.

John could do nothing else except sit beside him and hold his cold hand (the one that didn't have an IV attached to it) and hold it against his mouth and hope desperately for him to open his eyes. John sat there and kissed his palm and his wrist and each of his fingertips, thinking that when he woke up, he would make up for all the time they had wasted being idiots, and tell him that he loved him. And then they would kiss and John would never let him go.

He watched the silent rise and fall of his chest, listening to the sound of him breathing softly. He looked so frail and wraith like, lying there. There was a bruise on his cheekbone, dark and purple against the pallor of his skin, and his lip was split, and his wrists were covered in bandages. Apparently he had been thrown around a bit before Moriarty had tied him up. John felt a rush of protective, furious tenderness wash over him.

"I'll kill anyone who hurts you," he promised Sherlock quietly. "We protect each other, you and I."

Sherlock remained stubbornly quiet. John brushed his fingers through his dark hair, kissing his temple, holding his limp hand through the rails.

_There are so many things I need to tell you,_ he thought. _So many things I need to say to you. Wake up, please._

* * *

John had probably fallen asleep at some point of time, curled up in the armchair next to the bed, a kink in his neck and drool on his chin.

"John," Mycroft greeted him from the other side of the bed.

John squinted at Mycroft, wiping the drool. Then he turned to look at Sherlock, who was still quite motionless. He sat up and stretched his body out until he was sitting the right way in the chair, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Hi," he croaked, feeling miserable.

"Tea?" Mycroft passed him a plastic cup. John took it gratefully. He wondered if this qualified as a potentially awkward situation but he felt too exhausted to care. Also, the tea tasted awful. John made a face and put it on the stand next to Sherlock's bed.

"The doctor is confident he will wake up soon," Mycroft informed him. He was looking steadily at Sherlock, fingers clenched loosely around his umbrella. His tie was loose around his neck and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair he was sitting on.

"Yeah," John muttered, massaging the side of his neck, half-rising from his chair. "If you, eh, if you want me to—"

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "Stay."

John was relieved. He didn't feel comfortable leaving Sherlock alone for any period of time, not that he thought anything particularly dangerous would happen- but Sherlock could wake up at any time and he wanted to be there when he did. He sat back down. They both of them were quiet for a while, John trying to swallow down the rest of the tea because even if it was abominable it was still _tea._ Mycroft would occasionally take out his mobile and speak to someone, and John usually spaced out during these conversations, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's instead.

"So what happened to Moriarty?" John asked, breaking the silence. His voice sounded hard.

Mycroft took a great sigh, leaning back against his chair. "He's been taken into custody."

"Custody," John echoed blankly.

"Custody," Mycroft agreed.

"And Moran?"

"He shot himself in the head. It turns out he was in possession of two guns. One, he was disarmed of, the other he extracted while Sherlock was down and you were distracted…and shot himself." Mycroft looked vaguely troubled by this but the expression was soon gone.

John didn't want to go into the specific reasons behind Moran's questionable actions. He'd ask Sherlock, Sherlock would understand. "What are you going to do with Moriarty?"

"He has important information," was all Mycroft said.

"Is this where you tell me this is important government information?"

"Do I have to tell you?"

"I deserve to know."

"We'll know more when he and I have a chat," Mycroft checked his watch. John thought that this 'chat' had far more connotations than Mycroft was letting on. "What we know for sure is that he viewed Sherlock as a threat, and that he used him as a bargaining chip for something. For what, and whom, I still don't know. What's important is that neither of you will be troubled by him again."

They were quiet once again. John mulled over this information, unable to think beyond the fact that Moriarty had actively been trying to _kill_ Sherlock.

"Mycroft," he said. "I-if I knew, I would never have-"

"It doesn't matter," Mycroft shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "We both know that had the gun been trained at him, you would have done the same. Am I wrong, John?" He looked up finally, raising an eyebrow at John.

"No," John replied readily. "I-I'd do anything for him." John didn't particularly know why he was telling these things to _Mycroft,_ of all people, but he considered Mycroft as being the only person who cared about Sherlock as sincerely and deeply as he did, and that Mycroft should _know_ that John could be trusted, that there would never be any point of time when Sherlock did not have someone looking out for him. He didn't care if Mycroft approved of this, or not, but he wanted to reassure him that he would genuinely do _anything_ if it meant keeping Sherlock safe.

"Then there's no point discussing it," said Mycroft patiently. He stood up, brushing invisible dust off his crumpled suit. John didn't think he'd ever seen him in a crumpled suit. He looked very young. "Get some rest, John. And perhaps a bath. I can have something brought up here that you can sleep on, an extra bed, perhaps."

"I want to be here when he wakes up," John insisted. "And I don't want a bed."

Mycroft didn't look surprised. "I've reassured your mother that you would be looked after. Perhaps you would be so kind as to enable me to keep that promise," he said mildly, slipping on his suit jacket.

"Is she alright?" John asked. He'd only spoken to her once yesterday, but he had been such a babbling mess that his mother had grown steadily more worried with every incoherent sentence he uttered, so eventually Mycroft had taken the mobile from him and spoken to her on his behalf.

"Fine. As is Harry."

"We call her Harriet."

Mycroft's lip twitched. "Harry," he conceded. "Do take a bath, John. Anthea can bring you extra clothes."

"Are you sure her name really is Anthea?" John asked as he was leaving.

"I'm convinced it's not," Mycroft answered, and disappeared outside.

"Your brother," John told Sherlock. "is really a big softy on the inside. I'm convinced of it."

Sherlock didn't say anything in response, but John was sure he was amused by John's theory.

* * *

"John."

"Mmmm?" John murmured, dozing, before he suddenly jumped in his chair and looked down on the bed. Sherlock's eyes were open.

"Sherlock," he breathed, leaning forward with Sherlock's hand in his. "You-you're awake."

John couldn't decide what he should say first. Sherlock was looking at him, eyes crinkling at the corners, hazy and unfocused, lips turned up in a soft, fond smile.

"Hi," he rasped.

"How—how do you feel?" John asked. He felt ridiculous. What a _ridiculous_ thing to ask. It felt like a balloon was ready to burst inside his chest.

Sherlock seemed to be having a great deal of difficulty answering that. After a few seconds he said, "Hurts."

"I—I have to get the nurse," John told him.

"Stay," Sherlock commanded him.

"No, I have to get the nurse, and I have to tell your brother—"

Sherlock made a distasteful expression.

–" and you probably have to eat something…or something…"

Sherlock looked suspicious, as if he was doubting John's sanity. John didn't care. He bent over Sherlock and pressed his lips to his mouth. Sherlock made a vaguely shocked sound, but one hand reached up shakily to cup his face. John held on to his wrist and kissed him a bit more. Sherlock's lips were dry and chapped against his, but he didn't think he'd felt anything so _fantastic._

"I missed you a lot," John repeated. Sherlock continued to smile at him. He looked so incredibly _fond_ that John wanted to wrap his arms around him snuggle in with him in that bed. "And I need to call the doctor. Wait here. Can you wait here?" He shook his head. "Well, obviously. I'm being silly."

Sherlock looked slightly alarmed now. "John?" he asked hoarsely.

"I'm fine, I promise, I just—" he kissed him again. "Be back in a minute."

He ran outside into the corridor outside, looking for any passing nurse, but instead he found Mycroft and Lestrade, speaking to each other in low voices.

"He's awake," he practically shouted at them. "He's awake! Sherlock's awake!"

Mycroft turned around to blink at him a few times before he sprung into action. Lestrade grinned at him. John grinned back at him and thought, _what the hell,_ before he walked towards him and hugged him. Lestrade chuckled above him, patting him on his back.

* * *

Much to Sherlock's disapproval, Dr. Reynolds insisted that he would have to stay for a few more days."About a week," he promised, smiling briskly.

"A _week,"_ Sherlock repeated, horrified. "What am I going to do here?"

"I'm sure Mr. Watson will keep you company," he replied.

"But—but I'm _awake,"_ Sherlock insisted.

"Well, what if you relapsed and we had to bring you back?" he pointed out. Sherlock considered this point dubiously, as if there was no question of him relapsing and Doctor Reynolds was an idiot sent to torment him.

"That won't happen," he decided. He seemed to much more vocal now. John briefly considered telling him to shut up and listen to the doctor, but he was giddy with happiness because he was _awake_ and _okay_ and most importantly, it had taken him barely two minutes to get back to his regular snarky, snooty self. John _loved_ him for it.

"Well, that's why I'm the doctor here, isn't it," Doctor Reynolds said mildly. "Because that can most certainly happen and we want to send you home as healthy as possible. Now I won't bother you any longer," he looked around and gestured to Mycroft, who was leaning against the door, watching the proceedings with the kind of detached interest that he seemed to display towards everything. John was not fooled for a second. "Mr. Holmes, if I could have a word outside?"

"Yes, certainly," Mycroft said, and stepped outside, the doctor following him.

"I'm not staying here for a _week_ ," Sherlock announced immediately afterwards, flopping back against the pillows. He also immediately emitted a groan of pain, hand flying to his abdomen.

"Maybe try to cut back on the Victorian heroine antics," John suggested pleasantly, leaning forward to help him back into a more comfortable position.

John expected Sherlock to reply with something defensive and childish like he usually did, but instead he took John's hand gently and pressed his lips against it.

John smiled down at him and sat down. "You probably won't even have to stay for a week. A few days, at most. It's so you can recover from your surgery properly. "

Sherlock scowled. "I hate hospitals."

"Who doesn't?" John countered, threading their fingers together.

"You'd better be interesting." Then, "You look filthy. Is that blood?"

"It's…your blood," John answered, looking down to inspect himself. It was true, though. He _was_ filthy. Mycroft was right, he should have taken a bath. He felt vaguely ill by the thought that he was covered in Sherlock's blood. A sudden vivid image of Sherlock bleeding out in his lap flashed before his eyes.

"John?" Sherlock asked, sounding slightly worried. He shook John's hand. "John, come up here."

"Sorry-what?" John asked stupidly, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock was looking at him, eyes narrowed.

"Stop it," he admonished him. "I'm fine. Now come up here."

John realized that by 'up here' Sherlock meant the hospital bed, which he really wanted to get in to. Not because he was tired; but it felt like he hadn't touched Sherlock properly in _ages_ —he wanted to crawl in beside him and plaster his body against every inch of his; lay his head against his chest and listen to the steady beating of his heart. John wondered how long he would be aching to reassure himself that Sherlock really was alright.

"I—I might hurt you," John said lamely. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Don't lie to the most observant person in the room, John."

"Considering there are only two people in this room, that's not really such a—"

"Shut up."

John grinned at him, because he really couldn't help it, and decided that a) Sherlock always got what he wanted, and b) he was weak; so he stood up, toed off his trainers and slipped off his jacket so he could climb into the bed from the other side.

"The nurse already dislikes me," John informed Sherlock while trying to settle into a halfway comfortable position.

"Well why do you want her to like you?" Sherlock demanded, trying to turn towards him but failing, hissing with pain instead.

"Stay on your back," John commanded him, "I don't. I just think it would be easier if she did, especially if she decided to come inside."

"She won't." Sherlock shuffled closer to him; not that there was any extra space on the bed-it was a pretty tight fit. John didn't mind at all. He turned on his side so he could gently lay an arm across Sherlock's chest and shifted so he his nose was buried in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock lay absolutely still and allowed John to simply lie next to him and breathe him in. The bed itself smelled strongly of harsh disinfectant, but Sherlock smelled like _home._ His hair was unwashed and slightly matted, and John was pretty sure he hadn't had a bath in at least a week, but he was warm and safe and _breathing_ in his arms, and at that moment, John couldn't think of anything else that was more important.

"Never do that to me again," he finally said, realizing that this was the first time they were speaking to each other, properly, ever since that horrible day in the washroom. John knew that there were a million things that he had to say to him, but this tumbled out instead. He felt an urge to crush Sherlock to his chest, hold him tight until neither of them would be aware of anything else except each other, but he didn't want to hurt him.

"John—" Sherlock started, but John interrupted him.

"No, listen to me. You- if you had told me, we could have figured it out together, Sherlock. You wouldn't have had to go though this. Why can't you just trust me, for once?"

"I _do_ trust you," Sherlock said earnestly, craning his neck to meet John's eyes. "There is no one else I trust more than you."

"Then why couldn't you just tell me that Moriarty was forcing you to do all those things? Don't look at me like that, of course I figured that out. Mycroft and I had a very long, very important discussion."

"My brother and you were plotting while I was in a coma," Sherlock inferred. "Delightful."

"We weren't plotting."

Sherlock looked unconvinced. "The point _being,_ he continued, "is that—Moriarty was very…persuasive. He made me think he could do horrible, awful things to you, and all that mattered to me was preventing that from happening. I—I'm sorry, John. I truly am. I didn't—I didn't think anything through, I made a horrible, terrible mess of things, didn't I?"

"No, no you didn't," John hastened to reassure him, suddenly feeling guilty for bringing this up at all. Sherlock was looking at him, with a desperate expression on his face and John didn't want him to look at him like that, _ever._ So he kissed him.

John had to raise himself up a little bit and support himself on an elbow so that he could get some leverage, and also, he didn't want to crush Sherlock. Sherlock, who made a surprised, but undoubtedly very approving noise and reached up to curl a hand around John's neck.

The kiss was slow and simmering, a kiss that said _we have all the time in the world, because we're both okay, and we'll be okay for a long, long time._ Sherlock parted his lips for him almost lazily, and John stroked a gentle hand down his side while he moved his mouth against his. Sherlock didn't do much of anything at all—he seemed too tired to make the effort, but his nails dug delightfully into the hair at the back of John's neck and he was making short, panting breaths into his mouth, craning his neck upward to get more of him. John could feel his skin, warm and vulnerable underneath him from beneath the thin hospital shift, and John wanted to tuck him against his chest and protect him from the entire world.

"You took a bullet for me," he breathed against his lips. "Why would you do something so idiotic?"

"John—"

"What if he aimed a little higher? What if the ambulance didn't get there in time? What if—Sherlock, I can't live without you. Don't, don't do that, _please._ " John's fingers were tight in Sherlock's hair, his thumb against one sharp cheekbone.

"How can you ask me for that?" Sherlock whispered, his eyes wide. "How can you—he would have shot you, I had to do it, John. Don't ever ask me not to save you. I would do it again, in a heartbeat. How could I not? I love you."

John's mouth descended on Sherlock's again, and he had a fleeting thought that perhaps snogging in his hospital bed wasn't such a good idea, but it _was_ actually quite fleeting. This time he kissed him, hard and bruising, his tongue licking into Sherlock's open, slick mouth, and Sherlock whimpered underneath him, fingers tugging almost painfully in his hair, hips bucking against empty space. John had to hold him down gently, sucking on his bottom lip as he said, "Not here. Later, I promise. God, not here, Sherlock, you're hurt." This didn't stop him from kissing down his jaw, running his teeth against the slightly rough skin there.

"I hope you—keep that promise," Sherlock panted.

"I love you," John said in response, leaning over him and kissing the hollow of his throat. "I don't think I've said it enough. I love you. I'm gone on you. You're my favourite person ever."

"Mm, yes," Sherlock replied approvingly, hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking the hair at his temples. His lips were already wet and swollen. "Keep going."

John would have, definitely, in perhaps not the same way Sherlock had meant. He was already half-hard in his jeans and the only thing that was preventing him from _lifting up that god damn hospital gown_ and fucking Sherlock into the very mattress was the very gunshot wound at his side and the fact that he was unmistakably very tired, even though he would deny that stubbornly to his last breath.

"John," Sherlock said, in that fucking _voice_ of his, lips barely brushing John's. John was supporting himself on his arms to stop himself from putting any sort of pressure on Sherlock, but he knew that if only Sherlock could lift his hips upward, he'd feel John's cock that was now insistently pressing against the front of his jeans.

"Not here," John warned him, his voice coming out rough.

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded, one hand running down his chest. John knew there was a very _logical, rational_ answer to that, one that he wasn't being able to think of, what with Sherlock's tongue slowly tracing a line across his bottom lip and his hand coming dangerously close to his crotch.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said raggedly, and cursing himself, cursing the entire universe because _he was not going to shag Sherlock here_ , and rolled off and onto the other side of the bed.

Sherlock let out an extremely annoyed breath.

"You've just been _shot_ ," John told the ceiling. He wondered if he could will his erection away with sheer force of mind.

"Mmm yes, excellent observation," Sherlock replied dryly. The bed was far too small for this much distance to be sufficient, John though. Sherlock's hip was moulded to his. "I'm not made of _china,_ John."

"Once you're discharged," John said steadily, still looking at the ceiling, think of very unsexy things. Or trying to. "And I'm sure you're not going to howl with every movement, we'll fuck in your bedroom until we're too tired to get out of bed."

Sherlock, who had been breathing steadily next to him, suddenly stopped. "That…sounds reasonable," he said, sounding strangled.

"Does, doesn't it," John agreed, deciding to get out of bed before he climbed on top of Sherlock again and forgot all about his promise. Perhaps he should deal with his offending erection the same way all men dealt with it all around the world: with a wank in the loo.

Sherlock looked knowingly at him while he tried to adjust his jeans; his lips red and wet and his hair in even more of a mess than it had been. The snogging had also, John noted with some pleasure, brought back some of the colour into his cheeks. One dark eyebrow was raised in silent mockery.

"I could have dealt with that far more satisfactorily," he reminded him, gesturing towards his crotch, before yawning very loudly.

"Wouldn't have been very sexy if you bled through your bandages while wanking me off," John pointed out pragmatically. Sherlock looked extremely offended, as if the possibility of that happening was nil.

"At least jerk _me_ off," he demanded. "I don't think I'm wearing any pants," he added, almost as an after thought, obviously _knowing very well_ what that statement would do to John.

But then something happened that caused John's cock to wilt in seconds. The door to Sherlock's hospital room opened and his parents came in.

John knew that he and Sherlock didn't seem to be doing anything in appropriate; he wasn't even in his bed anymore. But John's mother fixed him with an icy glare and said, "Get your hands off my son and leave this room."

John wanted to point out that he wasn't even _touching_ him at that moment, (even though they had been doing much more than that a minute ago) but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Don't talk to him like that," he snarled. "And what are you doing here?"

Mr. Holmes turned to his son and the both of them bustled in. "Mycroft called us this morning, Sherlock, we were very worried."

Sherlock looked dubious. John didn't move from his position beside Sherlock's bed. His parents stood on the other side, dressed for London weather; hats and coats and scarves. His mother was also holding flowers. She made a great show of placing them on the stand next to bed. John didn't know what to make of all this, and going from Sherlock's expression, neither did he.

"I'm…fine," he said slowly, eyes travelling from one parent to the other. "You can go now."

"John, could you please leave us for a moment?" Ms. Holmes asked him, probably trying to sound polite but managing to sound the exact opposite.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist. He was surprisingly strong for someone in a hospital bed. "John isn't going anywhere," he said.

Mr. Holmes was looking at him as if he would have liked nothing better than to hit him again. John was fine with that. He'd _actually_ punch him this time.

"Sherlock, we understand your… _attachment_ to Mr. Watson here," he said, looking at John. "But you are our son and we would like to speak to you, alone, so if you could—"

"No, I couldn't," Sherlock said, sounding very final. "I am very tired and I want to sleep. Please leave."

"Well since he only listens to you," Ms. Holmes finally spat. "Why don't you tell him, John?"

"I don't tell him what to do," John answered steadily. "And leave him alone, he wants to sleep."

"Well isn't it absolutely _delightful_ that you know our son so much better than we do," she replied mockingly.

"What are you both _doing_?" Sherlock demanded. "Get out. I don't need this. John, tell Mycroft to do something."

His parents looked almost comically offended. John would have laughed if he hadn't been so angry.

"You—you were injured, we wanted to come and visit you," Ms. Holmes said insistently. Sherlock's father just continued to glare at John.

"Well, you've seen me, I'm alive."

"Now, listen here, young man—" he started, but then the door opened again and Mycroft was peering into the room.

Sherlock looked ready to jump out of the bed and out of the window. John considered going down with him.

"I thought you said you wanted to speak to him," Mycroft said, addressing his parents. "Why is there so much shouting involved?"

" _You_ let them in here?" Sherlock gasped.

"Well, they _are_ our parents," Mycroft said, logically.

"What difference does that make?"

"Mother, father, there's a very nice tea shop on the bottom floor. Why don't we go there and have a civilized conversation."

"Sherlock—" Mr. Holmes started.

-"is injured and in need of rest. I think he'll stay in London with me until he's ready to go back home. Please, come outside."

"We—" Mr. Holmes fumed. Mycroft raised one eyebrow and then he spat, "Fine, _fine._ Joyce, if you would—"

"That could have been avoided if you just didn't let them come in!" Sherlock called after Mycroft indignantly. John hoped his parents heard it as well.

"And we were having such a delightful time," John said mournfully, going up to the door and closing it.

"John."

"You parents are horrible, how do you stand them?"

"John."

"Do you even like roses, then?"

" _John."_

John looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Did my father hit you?"

"No?"

Sherlock looked amused. "John. There's a bruise at the corner of your mouth, for one, and you and my father were having some sort of staring competition."

"A little bit."

Sherlock looked _thunderous_. "Did you hit him _back?"_

"Mycroft interrupted."

"Ugh, he always ruins everything. You should have hit him back. Now. Get back in the bed."

"I think we've had this conversation before." John leaned over Sherlock and kissed him on his cheek.

"I—" he yawned. "There were things I had to ask you. About Moriarty. Important things. Mycroft won't tell me anything, I think."

"I don't want to talk about Moriarty," John said, honestly.

"Alright," Sherlock conceded. He stretched, grimacing with the movement.

"Do you—do you need more painkillers?" John asked, worriedly. He didn't want Sherlock to take any more morphine than necessary, but he also didn't want him to be lying there in pain.

"Yes," Sherlock decided. "But you could distract me by getting into the bed with me."

"I need to take a bath."

"Bo-ring. Unless you take one with me."

"Ha-ha. No." and then John stroked a hand across Sherlock's forehead because for some reason he just needed to constantly touch him, to make sure that Sherlock knew that he loved him desperately, that no one else mattered, and he knew for a _fact_ that Sherlock detested roses.

"I'm going to take a bath because this t-shirt is slightly alarming now," John told him. "I'll take it in the en suite, don't worry."

"Will you come out in a towel?" Sherlock asked. His eyes were drooping.

"Maybe," John said mysteriously, before bending down to press another kiss to his mouth. "I'll be back in a minute."

It took him more than a minute, and he decided, against his better judgment to wear the clothes that Anthea bought him (they looked ridiculously expensive but John never wanted to see the t-shirt that was soaked in Sherlock's blood ever, ever again) but by the time he came out (sadly, not in a towel) Sherlock was fast asleep, snoring softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the smile that Sherlock gives John when he wakes up in this chapter, yes, undoubtedly I am referring to the smol gay baby I-love-you-madly soft smile that Sherlock bestows upon John in the first plane scene. Duh. DUH. I have too many feelings and I don't know what to do with them, guys.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right. Okay. Whew. *wipes brow* This really was something, wasn't it? Here you go. The final installment of Sonnet. This is the end of this particular story, but I'm not leaving this verse quite yet. Stay tuned if you're interested! I just want to thank all of you who have commented, favourite-ed, followed, or even just silently read this fic. You guys have inspired me and kept me going, even when I had no idea where this fic was headed! So thank you. Each and every one of you are awesome and will have my eternal love and worship. *sends kisses and very warm hugs*
> 
> wolfandI has very kindly agreed to translate my awful French, so that'll be done shortly. I, however, could not resist adding some more French here, but I checked and double checked, and I'm pretty sure it's alright.
> 
>  
> 
> Right, so I WILL post a follow up later to tie up all the loose and dangling ends (if any). If you guys want a particular issue seen to it's end, or if there's a prompt you'd like to see in writing, pm me or hit me up on my [ my tumblr](http://subtext-is-my-division.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> One last note before I leave you to enjoy this chapter: I will NOT be posting any of my longer fics here anymore, so if you're following AWF or KLFM, you can check them out on my aO3. The link is on my tumblr. Also, I will be going on a sort of semi-hiatus until May because of study-related things, but I'll always be available to chat. And if I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'll post something.
> 
> Anyway! This is just a big dollop of porn and fluff with no redeeming quality whatsoever. Enjoy. *blows kisses*

 

* * *

 

 

28

Sherlock was, undoubtedly, the worst patient ever. He deduced embarrassing things about the staff, complained constantly about the food, and was generally an un cooperative shit. John wasn't even _surprised._ He was crawling the walls (figuratively, because he was in too much pain when he wasn't on morphine to be getting out of bed) and John sucked him off once just to shut him up. It worked effectively, though; for about five minutes Sherlock was blessedly silent, clinging to the bed sheets and gasping until he came in John's mouth.

The entire hospital seemed to heave a collective sigh of relief when he was finally deemed fit to be discharged.

Mycroft insisted that the both of them stay in London until Sherlock was well enough to travel. Sherlock protested this. He had no problem staying in London but the fact that they would have to _stay with Mycroft_ seemed to aggravate him on a personal level.

"First of all," he complained from the backseat of the car. "You're not _telling_ me anything about—"

"If we are to have that discussion," Mycroft said calmly, "We will have yet _another_ discussion about the alarming amount of stupidity you have displayed regarding this situation."

"I wasn't being stupid—" Sherlock retaliated hotly.

"Yeah you were," John rejoined.

Sherlock turned to him, looking shocked that he had agreed with Mycroft on something. John was unimpressed.

"God forbid John display any sort of cleverness," Mycroft said under his breath, and John laughed. Sherlock began to look offended.

"I see the both of you have become best friends whilst I was lying on my death bed," he concluded crossly.

"Yeah, that's exactly what we were doing," John agreed dryly. "And Mycroft knows I'll tell you what he told me, so calm down."

"Calm? I am calm."

John snorted.

When they finally reached Mycroft's flat, (which was very nice and fancy, just as John had thought it would be) Mycroft threw Sherlock his house keys and said, "Don't make a mess."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"Work, which is where most mature adults go."

"You don't _work,_ you sit behind your desk and control the government."

"Not quite there yet, but I do try."

"Bring back fish and chips," Sherlock sniffed, and stepped out of the car. He was still moving gingerly, but otherwise, he seemed alright.

"John, would you do me a favour and make sure he stays inside?" Mycroft asked him pleasantly.

"I don't think he's in a fit state to do anything but."

"Lovely. There's enough food in the fridge for both of you, help yourselves."

Sherlock was already unlocking the door, so John quickly thanked Mycroft and left the car. He took Sherlock's duffel bag from the trunk after which Mycroft drove away.

He followed Sherlock inside, and was greeted by a sitting room which seemed to scream _expensive._ It was tasteful and dark and everything looked like it might have been personally picked out by Mycroft. There was a covered piano in the corner, dark wood polished and gleaming.

"Nice place," John observed, dropping the bag on a nearby sofa. Sherlock made a non committal noise, throwing the keys on top of the coffee table where they clanged loudly on the countertop.

"Mycroft plays the piano?" John asked, walking towards the instrument, to inspect a photograph placed on top of it. It seemed to be some sort of certificate.

"Is—" he started to say, but then he felt Sherlock grab him by the shoulders tightly, turn him around, and push him, hard against the piano. The wood dug into his back and John had to flail wildly to get a grip on something, _anything,_ because Sherlock's mouth was on his, hot and demanding, seeking out his tongue, coaxing his mouth open.

"Well, this is—" he said raggedly, as Sherlock curled his fingers into his jumper and bit at his lip. –"nice," John finished lamely, bringing Sherlock closer, slotting their hips together.

"Stop talking," Sherlock growled, and rocked his hips against him. John made an unattractive, choked off noise at the feel of Sherlock's erection sliding hotly againt his, fingers digging into his hips under his coat. Sherlock's hands slipped under his jumper and slid up his back, fingernails scratching at his skin. "Fuck me on this piano," he said, and ran his teeth down his jaw.

"W-what?" John asked, already breathing hard, his jeans far too tight, tighter still at Sherlock's words.

"Sex. On this piano," Sherlock repeated, "On the floor. Let's shag in the kitchen, I don't care." He was frotting against him in earnest now.

"Isn't—isn't there a bedroom here, somewhere, anywhere," John suggested.

"I suppose," Sherlock answered, which didn't sound very promising.

"Christ, we're not shagging in the sitting room."

"Don't be boring."

"Sherlock, _fuck, that's good—_ bed—would be more comfortable," John kissed him between words, impatient, biting, licking.

"I don't want to be comfortable, I want you to fuck me till I can't stand."

"In a bedroom," John promised.

"Fine _,_ " Sherlock snapped, finally pulling away. His scarf had fallen open and was hanging loose around his neck, a very appealing pink flush creeping along his skin. John's gaze dropped to his crotch, where his prick was tenting against the front of jeans.

"Let's go to your room, or some room, or whatever," John said. "Are you sure you don't want to rest?"

" _Rest?_ I was asking you to bugger me on the piano." Sherlock replied shortly, panting.

"Yeah, I got that. You just came back from the hospital, do you want to…take a shower?"

"I don't want to take a shower."

"You're not—"

"I am going upstairs," Sherlock told him evenly, licking his lips. "Second bedroom to the right. I am going upstairs and taking off my clothes. If you want to fuck me, you're going to come up as well, otherwise I'll start without you."

John blinked at him stupidly while Sherlock turned around, travelled the length of the sitting room and began to march up the stairs. John watched as Sherlock slipped his coat off his shoulders as he went, the heavy wool falling on one of the steps and sliding down halfway.

"I thought that was an expensive coat!" John called out.

"I don't care," came Sherlock's brusque reply after he disappeared into the right.

John ran up the stairs. He almost tripped across Sherlock's shoes and his scarf on his way.

"Mycroft told you not to make—" when he found the bedroom, however, he stopped talking, because Sherlock was standing in the middle of it, his jeans unzipped and hanging precariously around his slender hips, fingers making quick work of his shirt.

"Are you going to continue to stare at me?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. The shirt slipped off his shoulders. John's mouth was dry. "Or will you come here and do something?"

John continued to stand there, so Sherlock walked up to him and pulled him to the queen-sized bed by the front of his shirt. Then he bodily ripped John's jacket from his shoulders and threw it behind him.

"Sherlock," John said, as he reached for the hem of his jumper. "Sherlock, wait, wait."

"For _what_?" he asked, in astonishment.

"I just—" John reached up to cup the back of his neck and buried his face in the crook of his neck.

"John-?"

"Shut up for a minute," John told him, and slid his arms around Sherlock's waist, breathing him in, just like he had wanted. His skin was warm and he smelled faintly of hospital soap. John could feel his pulse underneath his mouth, and he kissed his neck softly right there. Sherlock was still for a few moment before he hugged him back.

"Alright?" he asked.

"We are," he replied, and he felt Sherlock kiss the top of his head.

"Good," Sherlock pushed him away gently and then commenced pulling John's jumper off of him. John grinned at him.

"Are you only interested in me for my body, then?" he asked, while Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt.

"That would be a correct deduction," Sherlock replied, smirking. John had missed that smirk. "It's a very nice body."

"So is yours," John said, palming the front of his trousers. Sherlock hissed, bending forward to nip his ear.

"Careful, I'm mortally wounded," he whispered. John laughed, gently pushed him on to the bed by his shoulders.

"Stop being a prat and take off your trousers," he said. Sherlock shifted up further on the bed until he was leaning against the pillows, and spread his legs invitingly.

"I think I'm in too much pain to do that," he said, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. "Perhaps you could lend me a hand?" John climbed on to the bed and top of him, leaning over him on his hands and knees.

Sherlock grinned up at him, hair spread like a dark auburn halo around his head, silvery eyes blown wide. He looked so impossibly _happy._ John suddenly felt the back of his throat swell up, thinking of what he would have done if Sherlock hadn't woken up.

"I love you," John said helplessly.

"And I you," Sherlock said. "Now fuck me."

"And they say romance is dead," John said sarcastically, slipping the zipper in his jeans down. He slipped them off his legs and they joined the pile of discarded clothing on the floor. "Wait, we don't have—"

"There's some lotion in the nightstand, I think," Sherlock said, and then he simply reached for the waistband of his pants and slipped them right off.

"Uh—" John knew there was something that Sherlock had just said about…something…but then he was also lying sprawled absolutely naked in the bed and John was currently too engaged in staring at him, looking pale and breathtakingly gorgeous, one hand reaching up to lazily card through his hair.

"Ugh, must I do everything?" he complained, rolling over, grimacing, and yanking open the drawer on the nightsand. Then he took out a small white bottle and pulled John down on the bed.

"Can you—" John finally managed to say, slipping off his shirt. Sherlock was watching him hungrily from the other side of the bed, eyes dark and lips flushed pink, parted. John was going to tell him to flip over, but instead Sherlock crawled over to him and climbed into his lap.

"Jesus," John responded breathlessly, and Sherlock stole the rest of his sentence out of his mouth by kissing him, wetly, messily. Sherlock's body was curved over him like this, so John had to crane his neck to reach Sherlock's lips.

"Can we, can we do it like this—?" Sherlock asked, reaching between them and unbuttoning John's jeans. His cock slid wetly against his lower stomach, smearing pre come all over his skin. John was pretty sure he'd come before he even had his prick inside Sherlock.

"Yeah, whatever you want," he said, holding Sherlock by the hips while he sucked at his neck.

Sherlock managed to get John's jeans and pants down somewhere around his knees before he began rolling his hips against him in earnest, short, desperate noises spilling from his mouth.

John licked at his neck and he groaned, stretching his head back, panting. "Fuck," he rasped, as John bit his collarbone. The bandage on his stomach was the only bit of skin he couldn't reach, but John didn't care. He ran his hands everywhere else, down his chest and thighs, red and purple blossoming on the pale canopy of Sherlock's skin.

"Want you to— _fuck,_ bite me, John, mark me—" Sherlock warbled, stretching his neck back, presenting it to John.

John's cock twitched at the needy note of Sherlock's voice. "What?" he asked stupidly.

"Want everyone to see," he explained, "Want your marks _everywhere."_

And John had never heard anything quite so appealing, using his teeth to brand Sherlock like an animal, leaving bruises everywhere so that everyone could see that this gorgeous boy was taken, that he belonged to someone. So he licked a stripe up Sherlock's neck before sinking his teeth lightly against his pulse point. Sherlock's hips jerked against him, their cocks sliding wetly against each other. "Mmmm," Sherlock hummed approvingly, thrusting against John lazily. "God, _yes."_ He sucked the skin there until it was pleasingly red and glistening with saliva before moving to the junction of his neck and shoulder, kissing him softly before sucking a bruise onto his skin. Sherlock gasped and moaned above him, making garbled, incoherent noises while he rocked his hips against him.

"Good enough for you?" John asked, surveying his handiwork, satisfaction coiling lazy and simmering in his stomach.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, touching his fingertips to the spot. "Stings."

"Too much?"

"God no," he assured him. "It's _perfect."_

And then he kissed the corner of his mouth, before whispering in his ear. "So, John, how do you want me? Me, on my back, legs spread, you pounding into me? Or like this, me on top, riding your cock?"

John's mouth dried instantly, his cock jerking. Sherlock's voice was _sinful._ "I. Um." He croaked. Sherlock knew how to _dirty talk._

"Personally, I'd like you on top of me, fucking me until I couldn't breathe. But this is rather—different, wouldn't you say?" And he shifted a bit in John's lap so that his prick brushed against his entrance, rubbing filthily under the crack of his arse. "I like this." Sherlock's eyes were dark and predatory, the way they were during sex, looking at John like he wanted to devour him whole. Sherlock liked being fucked, he liked getting down on his knees and swallowing John down, but John had never been under any illusion that all that was only because Sherlock called the shots. Sherlock wanted to be flipped over and pinned down, but he also liked being in control. It was irresistible.

"I suppose the penetration would be less satisfactory for you, though," he drawled, hips still shifting restlessly.

"Doesn't matter," John told him. "This is—ah, this is good. Better than good. Pretty fucking awesome, really."

"Your vocabulary astounds, John," Sherlock teased, pressing the white bottle into his hand.

"Now," he demanded, fingernails digging into John's shoulders.

"We don't have—"

"Doesn't matter, I'm clean," Sherlock told him.

"Yeah, but—"

"Trust me, John, so are you."

"How do you-?"

"Would you please get your fingers in my arse, now?"

John somehow dumped half the lotion onto his hand in his haste. Sherlock giggled against him, kissing him sweetly underneath his ear.

"Lube is important," John defended, reaching around and slipping a finger inside him. That shut Sherlock up.

"Oh. _Oh,"_ he whispered, colour flooding into his cheeks. " _Yes."_

"Hurts?"

"Not—not much," he answered, biting his lip and burying his face in John's shoulder, body trembling.

He was tight around John, and he shuddered while John fingered him, teeth digging into his skin.

"God, open your mouth, I want to hear you," John said, sliding his hands into Sherlock's hair and pulling his head back to kiss him. Sherlock moaned against his lips and John added a second finger. Sherlock bit his lip, hard, hooking his arms around John's neck and kissing him back filthily, jerking his hips back and forth between John's fingers and his cock.

"John," he begged, nipping at his chin. "Fuck me, please."

"I—you're not—"

"I am, I promise, I'm ready, please, _please_."

"Okay, okay," John conceded, lips moving wetly down his neck to rest at the jut of his collarbone. He slipped his fingers out of Sherlock and grabbed his hips instead. "Alright?" he asked. Sherlock responded by lifting his hips so that John's cock was positioned right under his hole.

"Sherlock, look at me, are you okay?" John insisted, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look down.

Sherlock smirked.

"Never been better," he answered, and then started to sink down on his cock. He made a desperate, gasping noise at the first stretch, throwing his head back, panting loudly.

"Oh _fuck,_ " John hissed, his fingers probably leaving bruises on Sherlock's hips. "Slowly, shit, don't hurt yourself."

"I- _oh god, John,_ " Sherlock said breathlessly. Sherlock was stretched out in front of him, lips chapped and red and cheeks flushed, and John was resisting the urge to slam him right down and fuck him till he couldn't remember his name. Christ, he was so _tight._ Sherlock slid down a little more, groaning when John licked around a nipple, legs clenching tightly around his hips. "I, fuck, I can't— _oooh,_ " Sherlock was finally fully seated around him, eyes screwed shut and mouth open, head stretched back. John took the opportunity to kiss each of the freckles on his neck.

"You okay?" he asked again rubbing his back.

"Give me—give me a minute," Sherlock ordered him. "Hmmm. Sometimes I forget how big you are."

"Jesus. Where did you get that filthy mouth?" John asked breathlessly.

"It's good. I, mm. I like it. Fuck. _John."_

Sherlock started to move achingly slowly, leaning his forehead against John, mouth barely brushing his. John shifted his hips upwards to meet him, Sherlock tugging on his lip with his teeth.

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock," John said hoarsely, as Sherlock began to move up and down his cock. "Jesus, you—"

Sherlock's prick rubbed against his stomach, leaking all over him, and he clenched tightly around him every time John thrust upwards. "Gorgeous," John whispered,

running a hand along the raised ridge of his spine.

"Oh, _oh, John,"_ he shivered in response, biting his own lips as he rose up once and slid down, hard, on his prick. "Fuck, I—"

"Feel so good," John murmured, licking his collarbone. "You feel so good around me, god, I want you, want you so much.

" _Yes,_ yes, that, do that, mmm, _Jooohn,"_ Sherlock's fingers tangled themselves in John's hair, his grip almost painful. "Fuck, I want, I want—"

"Tell me what you want," John said, hands resting just above the swell of his arse where it was plush against his thighs.

"I, I—" Sherlock gasped, shaking his head from side to side. " _want,_ John, I—" Fuck, he looked beautiful like this, pale skin flushed pink, nipples tight buds under John's tongue, head thrown back as he fucked himself on John. This was definitely something John was going to store for later to wank off to, Sherlock looked downright _pornographic._

"Want you to—want you to make me come," he whispered hoarsely, words disjointed and broken. "Want your _hand,_ John, fuck."

"Anything," John said, sucking a bruise on to his neck, reaching a hand between their writhing bodies and wrapping it around Sherlock's prick.

Sherlock mewled loudly, hips bucking roughly against his fist. John was worried for a moment that Sherlock was going to start bleeding from his wound again, but he didn't seem to be in any pain. Quite the opposite.

"Tell me," Sherlock whispered against his lips, voice rough. "Tell me that you love me."

"I love you," John answered without hesitation, jerking him off messily.

"Oh, oh, _John,_ I—fuck, fuck," Sherlock kept moaning obscenities against his mouth, fucking himself on John's cock, John's bruising grip tightening around his hips as they lost all rhythm and Sherlock's breath began to come in sharp bursts.

"I'm—I'm—oh, _John, John,_ " he cried, spaying thick and hot all over John's hand. He kept canting his hips into his hand, arse sliding down on his cock. "I'm _coming,_ I'm—"

And John's cock was caught in tight, wet heat, Sherlock rolling his hips deliciously against him, and he followed him, panting against Sherlock's slack mouth as his hips jerked upwards.

"Sherlock, fuck, _Sherlock."_

"Fuck, yes, come inside me," Sherlock encouraged him.

And Sherlock could make everything, even something that sounded like it was from a bad porno, sound _sexy._ So John just held on to him and rocked them both together, kissing Sherlock until his panting breaths had turned into weak, whimpery noises, legs unwrapping themselves from around John's waist, leaning his forehead against John, breathing hard.

"You okay, love?" he asked, kissing one sharp cheekbone.

Sherlock made an odd noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. John was a little worried about that sound. "Sherlock?"

"I love you," Sherlock said instead, and slumped limply over John, making a purring noise that made him sound like a sex-sated cat.

"Alright," John laughed, kissing his hair. "Let's get you into bed."

"Oh god, John, I don't think I can give it another go so soon," came Sherlock's muffled voice against his shoulder.

"Twat."

"I don't think you have a correct idea of my anatomy, John."

"You have to get off of me at some point."

"Point conceded," Sherlock agreed, and slid off John's prick, wincing as he did so.

John kissed him at the corner of his mouth. "I told you lube was important," he said.

"Don't be annoying," Sherlock told him, and let John lay him down gently against the pillows. The bed sheets were filthy, but John decided that they could be taken care of later. So he did the next best thing; tugged them off and threw them on a pile on the floor.

Sherlock looked delighted. "They're Egyptian cotton," he informed John lazily, eyes already half lidded. "Let's never wash them and hide them in Mycroft's closet."

"That's a very bad idea," John decided. "Are there some blankets in this room?"

"Probably. Check the wardrobe," Sherlock said, stretching languorously. He made a thoroughly indecent noise which John was sure was on purpose, lips pulling up crookedly when he noticed John's reaction.

John decided to get the blankets. He found them, thick and fluffy and very warm, and pilled them on top of Sherlock until he was buried underneath them, giggling.

"What are you _doing_?" he demanded, trying to look offended but failing miserably. "I'm _injured!"_ His cheeks were pink and his hair was falling into his eyes while he laughed, and John loved him so much that it _hurt._

"We have to keep you warm," John told him very seriously, climbing into the bed. "Otherwise you'll freeze to death. That's what happens when you get shot."

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock said, still laughing.

"I know," John agreed, and kissed him again.

* * *

 

Later, much later, after Mycroft had come back home (and John had hurriedly woken up Sherlock, throwing a pair of track pants at his face while hopping around trying to pull his own jeans back on) and was probably (hopefully) asleep Sherlock went downstairs to the kitchen and found a very nice, very expensive bottle of red wine.

He had no idea about wine anyway, but he knew that everything Mycroft stocked was always ridiculously self-indulgent and most certainly expensive, so he felt very proud bringing it back upstairs to his room.

John was sitting on the floor of the room which was where he had left him. As soon as Sherlock came in he looked up at him and smiled. Sherlock loved that smile. John always smiled at him in a way that made him feel _special._ Not a freak, or a misfit, or someone to be mocked; no, John looked at him like he thought Sherlock was _extraordinary._

"What's that?" he asked, standing up and walking over to the doorway where Sherlock was leaning against the frame.

"Alcohol," Sherlock said deviously, handing him the bottle.

"Looks posh," John said.

"That's because it is."

John looked impressed. "And we're going to drink it?"

"That was the purpose, yes," Sherlock replied patiently. Then he reached forward and took John's hand in his own. "Come here." Sherlock lead him to the other end of the room, where there was a small door. This door led to a balcony, which was also small—but small enough for John's body to be comfortably leaning against his when they sat down.

"It's warm tonight," John said, stretching his legs in front of them. "And this is very nice. Give me that wine."

Sherlock laid his head on John's shoulder and John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and Sherlock wondered what he had done to deserve so much happiness.

"This is brilliant," John commented on the wine, and handed him the bottle. Sherlock drank some. He didn't care for it.

"Hmm, you are," he said instead, and turned up his head for a kiss. John obliged him, kissing him softly and _lovingly_ , smiling against his mouth.

The street below was quiet and mostly deserted; Sherlock didn't particularly like where Mycroft stayed, he detested this quietness. He liked London where it was loud and bustling, vibrant and exciting. There would be other days, he told himself. And maybe it was better that there was nothing to distract him from John.

"Are you going to finish all of that by yourself?" he asked him.

"You made a really odd face when you drank it, I don't think you liked it," John observed. John really was quite observant at times. He decided to stay quiet about this.

They were silent for a while, Sherlock quite content to doze on John's shoulder and listen to him taking even, steady breaths above him.

"Do you want to live here, some day?" John asked him.

"Hmmm?" he asked sleepily.

"In London. Do you think you'd live here?" Sherlock detected a faint trace of anxiety in his voice.

"Depends."

"On?"

"Would you be with me?"

"Of course I would," John answered readily. Sherlock lifted his head and sat up straighter so he could look properly at John. John was looking at him, eyes narrowed, as if he couldn't figure out what Sherlock was asking him.

"But you—you want to—" Sherlock didn't how to address this question. "I mean that—your—" he stuttered again. How would he ask John? How would he ask him without sounding needy, without blurting out _don't leave me, don't ever leave, I'd die if you left me._

"Sherlock?"

"The army, John!" he ended up shouting. Terrific. Yes, this was exactly how he had envisioned this conversation.

John stared at him. Then he narrowed his eyes, looking confused. "Have you been talking to my mother?"

"I—" he stopped. Struggled. "No, I deduced it about you. When we first met."

"You deduced I'd join the army?"

"I deduced there was a _chance_ that you had considered it, yes."

John pursed his lips. "I don't want to join the army, Sherlock."

"You—what?"

"I don't want to join the army," John repeated, putting down the bottle. "I want to—"

"Doctor," Sherlock told him.

"Yeah, doc—hang on, how did you—alright, never mind. Yeah, I'll study to be a doctor. I'll send my application ULC this year, and you'll probably go to Oxford or Cambridge—"

Sherlock made a noise of disgust. "Ugh, you sound like Mycroft."

John grinned. "And then we'll get a flat together, here. You love London, there's no way you'd stay anywhere else."

"Of _course_ we're getting a flat together, John," Sherlock said, trying to make it sound as though there had never been any other possibility, even though he felt like his heart was bursting in his chest. John wanted to _be with him,_ John wanted to live with him, he wanted things that Sherlock had convinced himself that he would never have.

"You know you're an idiot, right?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Your seduction skills need work."

John kissed him in response, hard, in a way that sent a delicious shiver of anticipation down his spine.. Sherlock didn't know how that answered why he was an idiot, but he kissed him back anyway. John kissed him almost desperately, as if he was trying to prove something.

"Stop looking at me like you can't believe I'd say these things," John told him. "You—you're everything, to me. I can't imagine a life without you, do you understand?"

"Yes," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Yes, I—"

"I love you, god damn it. That means I'm with you, as long as you want me. There are no loopholes. No conditions."

" _J’ai aimé jusqu’à atteindre la folie. Ce que certains appellent la folie, mais ce qui pour moi, est la seule façon d’aimer.," _Sherlock said, picking the quote from his head almost involuntarily. For a moment he didn't know what he said himself.

"Shit, are you speaking to me in French again? What does that mean? You know this is going to lead to sex, don't you," John reached for his hand and twisted their fingers together.

" _I have loved till the point of madness,_ " Sherlock translated, with some relief. _"_ That, to me, is the only sensible way to love _."_

John kissed him softly on his eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes, closet romantic."

"Shut up.

"Do you compose sonnets at midnight, looking at the moon? Thinking about how devilishly handsome I am? Pining after me?"

"Do shut up, John."

"Make me," John said, so Sherlock kissed him.

"Come to bed?" John whispered in his ear, voice rough.

" _Yes,_ " he replied, and let John lead him back into the room and strip him of his clothes and lay him back against the bed. John fucked him with a sort of mind numbing tenderness that made Sherlock _ache._ His climax was drawn out and came crashing down on him like a forest fire, spreading down his body to the tips of his curling toes.

"What would I have done if I'd never found you?" Sherlock asked him, after, curling around him like a vine. The pain around his stomach had mellowed down to a dull ache, and besides, he didn't want something as silly as a _wound_ to compromise his ability to wrap around John efficiently.

John smiled and kissed him on his chin. "You'll never have to find out," he said, and it sounded like a promise.

* * *

 

Quote from Francois Sagan. 


End file.
